#that greasy brown paper bag

[riphimopen]

that rotted. rancid. decrepit red snapper.

[heavenbarnes]

Not sure you hear of blue collar au.

But Simon retiring doing like woodwork or mechanic and something heavy duty work like it his second job.

Messy,sweating and just all man with that smell.

i’m a simple girl- i see a blue collar man (my partner) and i go fucking insane

once he retires from service, your older bf!simon still wants to keep busy so he picks up shifts down the road at the mechanics.

he knows the owner well and that means he knows what simon’s like- that’s all to say he leaves simon alone and lets him work.

it’s perfect.

so you send him off in the morning, fixing his coveralls and kissing his cheek. he’s even gripping the brown paper bag you’ve packed his lunch into.

he spends most of his days with his head under the bonnet of a car or on his back fixing the undercarriage.

he comes home with grease up to his elbows and sweat soaking through the fabric of his singlet.

he’s perfect.

he doesn’t really get it at first, the way you virtually leap at him the moment he comes through the door. he doesn’t want to get his greasy hands on your pretty clothes or skin.

but you’re gripping the fabric where his coveralls are hanging round his waist and pulling him down so you can get your tongue in his mouth.

he manages to get two seconds to wash his hands before he’s picking you up and placing you in his lap.

“what’s this about, huh?”

your nose runs along the side of his neck, he can hear the deep breath you take in as you press your face into the hairs of his chest.

“m’pretty fuckin’ sweaty, sweet’art”

he doesn’t miss the way your hips twitch against his, your tongue licking a thick stripe up between his pecs.

“i know”

all of a sudden, simon knows too- and he fucking groans when he pulls you flush into his lap. you can feel the hard line of him pressed between your thighs.

“dirty lil’ thing you are”

[theonion]

Bravely responding to a citywide crisis, humanitarian organizations from across the globe arrived in Philadelphia early Monday to feed the city’s hungover residents. “We cannot in good conscience allow these people to stay this hungover without stepping in to feed them the greasy starches they so desperately need,” said a volunteer from the U.N. who distributed Gatorade, Pedialyte, and brown paper bags translucent with french-fry oil to a crowd of several dozen residents struggling to open their eyes or calm their sour stomachs. 

Full Story

[inkdrinkerworld]

Remus and having a hand on their thigh or simply holding the other's hand while driving 🙇‍♀️please. I feel like he’s so calming and grounding and sweet

He really is!!! He’s the best ᡣ𐭩

Remus is cruising through the streets, the sky bleeding pink and orange as the sunsets and you sit with a bag of chips in your lap.

“Chip?” You hold a couple to Remus’ lips and he smiles as he flicks his blinker on and then turns to you.

“Thank you,” you giggle when Remus licks your salty fingers.

You’d been driving back from a picnic with Remus and the smell of the greasy chips had called to you and Remus hadn’t hesitated.

One of his hands drop to your thighs as you carry on your own munching, content to feed Remus as he drives to the nearest pier.

It’s a welcome warmth on your thigh, his big palm. It’s a little rough and calloused, but it’s Remus’ and everything about him is good.

Your belly warms at the thought, and you tuck your cheek to your shoulder as you watch him drive and feel his thumb drag back and forth on your thigh.

Remus sneaks a peak at you when it’s been more than a couple minutes without the crinkle of the brown paper bag.

He smiles when he sees you staring at him. “What dovey?”

You smile softly at his question, “You feel very safe.”

Remus coos, pulling into a parking spot and parking quickly. As soon as he does, he pulls your face close to his.

“You’re a flatterer,” he kisses your nose and you giggle. “You’re my love though, so it makes sense.”

Remus kisses your cheek and then your lips. “C’mon, let go get our walk and see if you can find any sea glass.”

[queenbrucewayne]

Late nights (Bruce Wayne)

Bruce rubbed the bridge of his nose, leaning back in his office chair he tried to ignore the headache that was coming on.

This was night two of being stuck in the office with reports that needed to be finished. A few people from the office were still here, helping out in anyway they could with the party and final budget for this week. He wasn’t gonna leave them to do everything by themselves, this party event was big, lots of deep pockets would he going, and the money was all gonna go to a few amazing charities that have been apart of the Wayne foundation for years.

Bruce was used to late nights, but he would honestly rather be beating up crooks then look at another report.

The office door opened, he glanced up to see the last person he expected. Y/n had a happy smile on her face, holding a big bag of something greasy in one hand and two drinks in the other. “Special delivery!” Setting down the brown bag, she then carefully placed a hot cup of coffee in front of him.

Bruce smiled, taking the coffee he quickly brought it to his lips. “Thank you. Not that I’m not happy to see you, but why are you here? I thought I told you I would be back late tonight.”

“You did, but Alfred and I thought it would be a great idea to offer some treats to those who were putting in the over time for the big party this week.” Y/n looked behind her to gesture at the glass doors behind her.

Alfred could be scene passing out plates of food to all the employees who were still at their desks this late at night, all of them gathering around each other as they laughed and seemed to look excited at the sight of amazing food that was brought before them.

“Wow, Alfred really went all out.”

“Hey! I helped too!” Y/n opened the brown bag and started to unpack it. “Well…I mostly mixed stuff, but the effort was there.”

Setting down two plates, utensils, napkins, and some sauces, she brought around the roller office chair to be seated right next to Bruce. “Here, eat up, we are gonna have a long night.”

“We?” Bruce smiled, taking the fork from her hand.

“You thought I was just gonna drop off food and leave, I’m going to multitask and finish some of these papers.” Y/n took the stack that was still untouched. “Eat, imma read.”

Bruce looked down at her, watching as she flipped thru some of the budget papers, she grabbed a few highlighters, along with a red pen and started working.

She hadn’t noticed, but while he was eating Bruce was watching her out of the corner of his eye. He watched as she would switch some prices, cut out anything that was unnecessary. He was impressed with all the changes she was making, all the things that needed to be approved and things that didn’t. It was like he was doing it.

Once Bruce had finished his plate, he took over the other half of the stack. Both of them working out the rest of the planning much quicker then if he would’ve don’t it by himself.

Before they knew it, the reports and budget was completely done. A few hours had passed and most of the employees had went home for the night.

Y/n was sitting next to Bruce, her feet propped up across his lap, her shoes somewhere on the office floor and Bruces blazer draped across her body as a blanket. He finished some final touches on his computer, taking a deep sigh as he sent his last email for the night.

Looking over, he smiled at the sight of Y/n slumped in the office chair, she had brought his blazer closer to her chin, her neck bent slightly as she rested her head on her shoulder like a pillow.

Bruce gently scooted closer to her, keeping her legs on his lap he got close enough to be able to shake her shoulder gently. She grumbled something, not making any attempt at even opening her eyes. This time Bruce brought his hand up to her cheek, stoking slowly with his thumb.

Y/n opened her eyes, blinking rapidly as she tried to adjust to real life from dream world. She smiled sweetly when she saw Bruce, pushing herself deeper into the palm of his hand. “Good morning.”

Bruce laughed, “Not yet, but we should probably get out of here before the sun actually rises.”

Sitting up, Y/n stretched out her hands above her head. Moving her feet off of Bruce’s lap she stood up while taking the blazer that was on her lap to hand back to him.

Bruce stood up, glancing over to see her holding his blazer. “Here.” He took it from her hands, but instead of putting it on himself he wrapped it around her shoulders. “It’s probably colder now.”

Slipping her hands in the sleeves she continued to clean off his desk and take home any papers they might need for later.

Bruce grabbed his laptop and the shoes that were scattered on the floor. Placing them down in front of her, “Here.” He told her, leaning down he let her use his shoulders to steady herself, slipping each shoe on her feet.

“My Prince Charming.” She teased.

He stood up, shaking his head he turned around to grab the keys off his desk. “Let’s go princess.”

Walking to the garage, he went to open the door for her. “Thanks.”

Bruce gently shut the door, making his way to the other side he slipped into the drivers seat starting the engine.

“Y/n?”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you, for coming. Both you and Alfred, you didn’t have to come and help.”

Y/n smiled, “gives me an excuse to see you, besides I know these late nights are harder for you than your late nights in the city.”

He laughed, “Heh, yeah, can’t say I disagree with you there.”

Pulling out, Bruce gently laid his right hand on her thigh. “Let’s go home.”

[gublersquill]

To love and be loved by me

Spencer x BAU Reader

Reader spends Valentine's Day alone after Spencer is called out on a case but doesn't tell her.

AN: Hey Loves <3 its been a while im trying to get writing more before i start uni so i could love any requests and feedback.

Ahh I just found out that he read this poem on spotify it’s one of my favourites!!! Linked below <3

TW: Angst. The reader is self-conscious, overthinking, and struggles with insecurity about her looks.

WC: 0.9K

The cloth scrapes across your face, smudging the mascara lines over your cheeks. You throw it aside, leaning on your palms as they press against the porcelain of the sink. Your face hovers over the basin, tears splattering against the alabaster surface.

You shuffle out of the bathroom, curling into a ball on your shared bed. Cold. It was always cold now when you slept—no soft hands tracing circles into your skin, no one there to hold you, to pull you away from the rest of the world, to whisper how much you mean.

Instead, you wrap your arms around yourself, burying your face in your sweater, trying to fight off the tears. You should have expected this—you just dared to hope that, for once, it would be different. That maybe, this time, he would finally stop trying to save everyone else and start trying to save you.

And you know you don’t need saving, You can handle yourself.

But it was just so nice to lean on someone. That had always been one of your favorite things about Spencer—how much he cared, how he always seemed to know exactly what you needed.

Well, he used to.

The book, wrapped in brown paper, sits abandoned on the marble counter. Beside it, your bag rests haphazardly, the metal strap dangling off the edge. It had taken hours of scouring bookstores to find something that felt just right, something that truly fit.

And then, there it was. Sitting in the barely lit corner of a second-hand bookstore, the soft brown leather cover was both worn and inviting. When you opened it, you found a message scrawled on the inside cover:

"With a love that the wingèd seraphs of HeavenCoveted her and me.To my beloved Lillian."

It was perfect. That poem—the one Spencer would recite to guide you into a soft, dreamless sleep.

After buying the book, you added your own note beneath:

"And this maiden she lived with no other thought,Than to love and be loved by me.To my beloved Spencer,Who showed me that love was all around us ."

You huff, sitting up in bed and checking your messages again. It wasn’t as if this was a big deal anyway. You’d always resented Valentine’s Day—the excess of it all made you feel sick to your stomach. But he had always made it special.

You had grown to understand the goofy smiles and the boxed chocolates. One year, he’d shown up at your apartment with a bottle of wine and a leather-bound copy of To the Lighthouse in his hands. He had smiled, so effortlessly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, “I saw it and thought of you,” he’d said softly, his fingers brushing against yours as he handed you the leather-bound book. “I know it’s your favorite.”

You had welcomed him in, and the evening unfolded like magic—sometimes quite literally, as he laughed while pulling the bottle opener from behind your ear. The two of you talked about everything and nothing, sharing greasy takeout and sipping wine. When the night finally came to an end, you fell asleep together, wrapped in his arms, with no idea where you ended and he began.

This is what you think about as you lie in bed alone. It feels silly to be so upset over something so trivial. 

What was it Spencer had said about crimes increasing over the holidays? But he’d promised it would never happen again.

You still remember the sting of that empty seat across from you, the waitress’s pitying glance as you paid for the wine he never showed up to share.

Spencer had of course apologized profusely the next morning—something about a sadistic narcissist. You’d forgiven him. 

 But it just kept happening.

Silence and darkness always unearthed the thoughts you tried so hard to bury. Thoughts that slither into your mind on nights like these. You pull the blanket up to your chin, shivering.

Thoughts of him—his voice, the way his lips curl into a smile—are crowded with others. Was he sitting in a meeting room somewhere, his phone set to silent. You can almost picture him, gesturing with his hands, laughing at something Emily had said.

She is stunning. Her soft brown eyes are the first thing you see in your mind. You trace the features of her face—her elegant nose leading down to those perfectly shaped Cupid’s bow lips.

Is he looking at her right now? Spending Valentine's Day working with his beautiful colleague? Is he sitting too close? Can she smell the cologne you carefully picked out for him to wear today? Your throat aches at the thought.

It’s wrong to think like this—you know that. You know him, sometimes better than he does. It’s selfish. It must be selfish. You think you should have more trust in him.

But then again, maybe you are right to feel upset. Maybe you’re not being oversensitive. Maybe he just didn’t think.

It’s physically impossible for him to forget your plans. That thought does nothing but twist the knots in your stomach tighter.

You sigh, rolling onto your side, looking over at the empty space next to you and pulling the blanket tighter. You push those thoughts away as you start to whisper to yourself.

"And neither the angels in Heaven above Nor the demons down under the sea Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee."

[luvfy0dor]

“His Hands are in my Hair, His Clothes are in my Room ♡⁠˖” BSD x GN!Reader ੈ✩‧₊˚

╰��➤ Osamu Dazai, Chuuya Nakahara, Fyodor Dostoevsky, Nikolai Gogol

Warnings; Nikolais and Chuuyas are hardly proofread, Nikolais was rushed, Nikolais nearly got scrapped, I don't like Nikolais, maybe a little ooc

Description; sharing clothing w the BSD boys

A/n; GUYS OH MY GOD I GOT A 5 ON MY FIRST AP EXAM IM SO PROUD OF MYSELF AHHHHHH IM GONNA CRY also I'm sorry posts are so few and far between. It's so hot and hard to function. I know I said the exact same thing to excuse minimal posts in winter but like. its literally hot as balls and all I got is a puny ass 8yro fan and the occasional sip of iced water.

Osamu Dazai ★

• Dazai likes to take your old T-shirts to sleep in when you lend them to him for the night. After a few nights of having Dazai at your house, you wonder why your sleep-shirt collection has nearly cut in half.

ೃ⁀➷

You unlocked the door of your apartment and pushed it open with your unoccupied hand. The other arm held a large brown paper bag filled with gas station food and snacks for you and your boyfriend, who followed you inside. Once you set the bag down on the coffee table, you retrieved your keys from the door and closed it. When you came back to the kitchen, Dazai had already dumped everything out and was sifting through all the options. "The walk back from the gas station was hardly five minutes and I've already forgotten everything we got." He says with a grin, opening a bag of chips and eating a couple. He offered you some, holding the bag out to you. "Want some?' He mumbled.

"Yeah, let me just change into pajamas first, I don't wanna do anything until I'm comfortable." You said, shrugging off your jacket and starting to undo your belt before you even make it back to your room. Dazai followed suit, bag of chips still in hand. "Can I borrow some?" You nodded before taking off your shirt and tossing it in the laundry hamper, going through your closet to find a shirt for your boyfriend and yourself. "Thank youuu~" He plops down onto your bed, keeping the chip bag upwards so he doesn't get any crumbs or dust on your nice blankets. He watches you pull one of your band shirts over your head, admiring your body from his position on your mattress. He's snapped out of his daze when black fabric comes flying at him, but he catches it before it can smack him in the face. "Thanks, babe, you're so kind."

He switches his work clothes for your old ones, the big shirt nearly swallowing his scrawny torso comfortably. "Alright, I want snacks, come on." You gesture for him to follow you back out to the kitchen where the array of snacks was waiting for the two of you on the counter. There were numerous kinds of chocolate, and Dazai had grabbed a couple bags of gummies for himself. There were a few more bags of chips for variety, and you scooped everything up in your arms to bring to the living room. You dropped them all on the coffee table and grabbed the remote. "Alright, what movie are we feeling?" You ask, turning to the brunette man. "Uhhhhh, how about an action movie. Somethin' that looks exciting." He says, slinging his arm over your shoulder while he munches on sour gummy worms. Eventually, the two of you decide on a Godzilla movie, slumped against the couch with chocolate residue on the tips of your fingers from your candies. Dazai let out a long sigh as the movie came to a close, leaning into you and resting his head on your shoulder.

You ran your fingers through Dazais messy and slightly greasy hair, scratching his scalp and listening to his pleased, quiet hum. "Are you falling asleep or are you up for another movie?" You ask him, watching the credits roll on the TV. "I'm up for another movie, I just think I might be having a sugar crash." He says, groaning as he sits back up. You nod and grab the remote again, browsing through all the film options. Every now and again, your eyes involuntarily flickered over to your boyfriend, and you couldnt help but smile. He looked really cute in your shirt, and it almost made you wanna treat the movie like chopped liver and cuddle up to him.

"You look really cute." You say, playing whatever movie you absent-mindedly started in your daze. "Oh, I know, right?" He grins running his hand over his body. "As a matter of fact, I've never felt sexier." He teases, moving his eyebrows up and down with a smirk. You can't help but laugh at him. "Let's get you on a playboy cover." Before you know it, he's standing up in front of the TV. "Scrap the movie, you have me for entertainment instead." He puts his hands on his hips and strikes a pose, making you laugh some more. "You want some attention? I mean, I guess since you asked so politely." You stand up with an eye roll and pull him in, kissing him and running a hand down his side. He keeps one hand on your chin, tilting your head to meet his lips, sighing quietly each time your lips part for a quick moment. Soon, you both need more air then small gasps and have to pull away. He smiles and messes with the fabric of your own shirt. "How about we ditch this mess for now and go to bed, yeah? We can continue comfortably there?" He offers, You glance back over at the piles of snacks, opened or not, scattered acrossed the floor. Normally you'd make him help you clean up before doing anything else, but tonight you really couldn't be bothered and just wanted to follow Dazai wherever he'd take you. "Alright, let's go."

Chuuya Nakahara ★

• Everyone knows that Chuuya adores his hat, but not everyone knows he's got a decently sized collection of fancy hats on top of his closet. One day while rummaging around and trying to find one of Chuuyas button downs for him, you notice them all on the top rack.

ೃ⁀➷

"Chuuya, you didn't tell me you had so many hats!" You called out to him, standing back and staring at them all. Chuuya was currently in the bathroom, shaving his peach fuzz to keep his smooth face. "Huh? Oh, yeah, I've got a ton." He calls back, washing the shaving cream off of his skin. "They're pretty..can I try some of 'em on?" You ask, reaching to grab the one on the top of the stack. "Go ahead." He walks out of the bathroom with his towel around his waist, leaning against the doorframe to watch the little fashion show you were about to put on. The first one you grabbed was adorned with flowers of various colors. You placed it on your head and turned around, posing with your hands on your hips.

"What do you think? Vogue worthy?" You ask him. He smiles at you and nods, his arms crossed over his chest. "One hundred percent, that's peak fashion." He says genuinely, standing up straight and walking over to the closet. He reaches up and grabs another hat for you to try, switching it out for the flowers one. This one is a dark, reddish brown color. "This one's cute too." You giggle and head over to the bathroom to see for yourself. "Ooo, I'm not sure this kinda hat is necessarily for me." You giggle. "What do you mean? It looks great on you!" He says, following you in and hugging you from behind. "You only say that because they're your hats." You say, grinning.

"I mean, I guess not everyone is destined to look good in them like me." He says, squeezing your hip. "I gotta actually get ready for work now, I'm probably runnin' late." He says, turning around and dropping his towel. He tossed it into the hamper before getting dressed in his usual attire, spotting the button down that you had forgotten about in favor of his hat collection. "Okayyyy." You yawn, stretching your arms over your head and treading through the bedroom to start your own morning routine. You didn't have to leave for another hour, but Chuuya had to get to work within the next 30 minutes. After brushing your teeth, you notice Chuuya searching the bedroom for his usual hat.

"The nightstand." You point out to him. He sees it and lets out a sigh of relief, grabbing it and plopping it on his head. "Thanks, doll. I gotta get going' now, but I'll see ya tonight, okay?" He says, pulling you in by your waist for his daily goodbye kiss. "Yeah, got it." You smile before kissing him sweetly for a quick moment before he backs away. "Alright, I love you, see ya later." He playfully smacks your ass before letting go of you and heading out to the door. "Bye Chuuya, I love you, I'll see you later!" Once you heard him leave, you smiled to yourself and headed right back to the closet. You didn't necessarily have to get dressed just yet, so that gave you some time to try on a couple more hats on your own.

Fyodor Dostoevsky ★

• Fyodor doesn't mind letting you borrow his cape if you seem cold, or he'll simply wrap it around you and pull you into his side. He prefers the latter, considering it doesn't take much for him to get chilly.

ೃ⁀➷

Fyodor held your gloved hand in his as you both walked down the snowy streets of Yokohama. It was the winter solstice and you both decided to take a walk down one of the most popular roads and do some window shopping. By the end of the evening, the hand that wasn't occupied with holding Fyodors held a warm cup of hot chocolate that you sipped on periodically. "Have you enjoyed yourself tonight, Myshka?" He asks you, adjusting his ushanka and gazing up at the sky, noticing some snow start to fall. "I did. Thanks for coming with me, I know you have a lot of stuff to do." You respond, bringing the cup to your lips for another sip. He waves his hand dismissively. "That doesn't mean I can't accompany you." His thumb rubs over your knuckles as snow starts landing on his hat and your head, the street lamps illuminating the darkness with a tangerine-colored glow. You nod at his words, leaning into his shoulder and shivering.

"It's so cold, Fedya." You say, your head on his shoulder and your hand squeezing his tightly. He lets go in order to put his arm around your waist, pulling his long cape over your shoulder. "I know, the walk home isn't much further, don't worry." You smile and hold onto the old, worn material to keep it in place. "You're right, thanks." You say, feeling butterflies in your stomach. It never mattered how long you and Fyodor had been together, every affectionate action made you feel like you had just got together. He held you close with his cape still shielding you from the cold and adding a layer of warmth to your jacket. He would peer over at you every now and again, laughing under his breath at all the snow that was getting into your hair. "What's so funny?" You ask him, a smile spread acrossed your face. "You've got a whole bunch of snow on your head." He tells you. "It looks like dandruff."

You roll your eyes and yank the ushanka off of his head, placing it on yours instead. "There, now you won't have to look at it." You hold the fluffy hat on top of your head and try to prevent him from taking it back when he tugs on it. "No, you can get your own, my ears are cold." He says with a smile, eventually pulling it back into his own possession and patting it off. "I will say though, you look better in my hat than Dazai did." You give a proud smirk and rest your head on his shoulder. "I'd hope you'd think so." Your street comes into view and you pull him along as you speed up, wanting to get into the warm, cozy house as soon as possible. "I know running isn't exactly your thing but pick up the pace a little, I wanna get under the covers and cuddle." You tell him, getting closer to home with each passing second.

He picks up speed for you and listens to the sound of your feet hitting the pavement. It's not long before you've pulled him all the way home and you're unlocking the door, nearly spilling inside to get into the warm living room. Fyodor follows suit, unlacing his shoes and hanging up his cape and ushanka. You wait for him in the open doorway that connects the living room and the hallway, ready to curl up in bed away from the harsh cold. "Alright, I'm coming." He says, treading through the hall with you and opening the bedroom door. His hand rested on your lower back as you both walked to the comfortable mattress, crawling under the covers and pulling each other close. "Your cape is really warm and comfortable. You should wrap me in it more often." You say, scooching closer to him and letting his arm drape over your waist.

"Hmm, I guess that wouldn't hurt. You really like it?" He peers down at you, his head propped up on his fist. "Yeah, I might have to steal it, actually." You say seriously, making him click his tongue. "You're welcome to steal it if I'm not wearing it." He says, chewing on the inside of his cheek habitually. "Then expect it to be off the hanger more often then not." He smiles and presses a kiss to your forehead, laying his head down on the pillow. "Okay, that's fine, but right now you have me and the blanket to keep you warm." He murmurs, closing his eyes. "Well you're not contributing to that as much as the blanket, but whatever you say." You kiss his cheek and brush his bangs out of his face. "G'night Fedya, I love you." You say, resting your head on his chest, ready for sleep. "I love you too, y/n, sleep well."

Nikolai Gogol ★

• You always loved Nikolais outfit and couldn't help but wanna put it in one day. You were sure he wouldn't mind, after all, sharing attire was nothing foreign to your relationship.

ೃ⁀➷

It started with you trying on his blouse for fun, but then you decided the blouse wasn't complete without the vest, pants, gloves, collar, shoes, or hat. Everything fit you a little differently than it fit Nikolai, but it didn't matter, because when you walked over to the nearest reflective surface, you found yourself cute, and you almost couldn't wait for Nikolai to get out of the shower to show him. You just needed one more thing, his cape. You ran out to the coat rack by the door and swung it behind you and then over your shoulders excitedly, grabbing it by the edges and moving it around. You felt really fancy with his cape, swaying your body just to feel the fabric move with you. As a matter of fact, you were so caught up in how good the cape made you feel that you didn't even realize the bathroom door open.

"Oh, wow, dove! My outfit looks so good on you! I've never noticed how much the red gloves pop until now." You turned around so fast, as if you were sitting in silence and all of a sudden a full file cabinet tipped over and crashed onto a linoleum floor. "Wah-! When'd you get out? I mean, thank you, but you scared me!" You say with a nervous laugh. "I thought it looked cute." You murmur, starting to pull off the gloves, but he stops you. "Hey, wait, you should stay in it for a moment, I'm not done admiring you yet!" He tells you, walking over and grabbing your hands gently. He leans in to kiss you, his smile palpable on his lips. You hand falls on his shoulder, rubbing it up and down affectionately before pulling away. "You really like it that much, huh?"

He nods. "Ofcourse! Oh, I'd love to show everyone how wonderful you look. Would you let me?" He asks, squeezing your hands tightly. "Sure, Kolya, go ahead." He quickly skitters off to fetch his cellphone, returning with the camera app already open. "Pose." He says, watching you place your hands on your waist and cock your hip a little bit. "Ah, gorgeous." He says, spamming the capture button. "Okay, I think that's enough." He says, his cheeks a bit pinker than before. He tossed his phone onto one of the side tables and embraced you once again, resting his head on top of yours. "Come on, y/n, I'd like to see you in my whole wardrobe now!" He says excitedly, pulling you along back to the bedroom. You don't necessarily know what you ignited in him, but it was certainly something, and now you were preparing yourself for a god-knows-how-long fashion show for your boyfriend. Not that you really minded, ofcourse.

A/n; another post that was supposed to have sigma and then didn't have sigma because I wanted to watch Jersey shore instead of write. ALSO I WENT TO THE DENTIST YESTERDAY terrible experience I cried but don't tell anyone I said that

[wondernus]

— WHY HIM?

SYNOPSIS: armed and ready at 4am, you approach your locked front door to confront the group of loud strangers trying to break into your apartment

PAIRING: fiancé!lsm x reader

GENRE: fluff, humor

TAGS: food mention, inebriated characters, post-bachelor party, brother!hvc

WC: 1.75k

MESSAGE FROM NU: hii long time no see :3 posting a dk oneshot to let you know i'm procrastinating on my final paper draft by drafting a hefty dk soulmate au i've been thinking about writing for a while. also dedicating this fic to @wongyuseokie the la to my ma

A perfectly peaceful Friday night goes to waste when you shoot up from your bed in a panicked state. It’s not the usual cat wanting to leave your room at five in the morning kind of scratching sound that lures you to open your bedroom door in a half-awake state. Instead, shuffling sounds out front and an insistent metal-to-metal sound, which you can only infer as someone trying to break into your apartment, cause you to become extremely vigilant.

Seokmin isn’t picking up his phone, but you keep his line ringing just in case he does. Doubtful that a pair of scissors can do as much damage to the head as a giant wok can, you head into the kitchen to pick up that giant carbon steel wok that you can never seem to fit into any of your kitchen drawers as a form of physical backup before you quietly approach your front door.

However, the fear that once overwhelms your body soon turns into a sigh of exasperation before you can even position yourself to look through the tiny peephole. You can clearly hear the familiar voices on the other side of the door and match each voice to its respective owner. Feeling relieved, you drop the wok on the cubby by the door and hang up the phone.

“Look, I opened it,” the man who was trying to open your door slurs with a dopey smile on his face. He doesn’t seem like he’s talking to anybody in particular. “I’m a fucking genius.”

Almost immediately after that statement, he falls forward and faceplants a couple centimeters away from your indoor slippers. Slumped to the side of his face is his hand that holds a small metal keychain between the thumb and index fingers. It’s a souvenir nameplate keychain from a family trip to another country a few years back whose design reads “Vernon” in all caps. You realize that the man near your feet didn’t even try opening the door with the key.

The actual owner of the set of keys lies on his left side while his entire body is propped against the bushes in front of your place. His legs are still surprisingly in a crisscross position, but you think it’s because his jeans restrict him from being able to unravel from the position. And when you see earbuds plugged up your brother’s nose while his mouth acts as some sort of impromptu speaker for whatever song he has playing through his earbuds, you consider the option of leaving him outside for the rest of the night. What’s even worse is that Joshua, although a little out of it, sits next to his younger friend and bobs his head to the music while lethargically reaching into his brown paper bag on his lap to grab some greasy fries. You think your brother is asleep, but you don’t know if him becoming a speaker happened pre-knocking out or post-knocking out.

“Do I want to ask why you guys are trying to break into my place at 4 a.m. in the morning or should I be concerned that only half of you guys are here?”

“Actually.” the man underneath you groans while he slowly gathers enough strength to sit upright. There is a nasty red mark on the side of his face that he doesn’t seem to know of and mind. “Saying ‘4 a.m. in the morning’ is redundant.” He points at nobody in particular with the same hand holding your brother’s set of keys and stares past your calves.

“Since you’re sober enough to be smart with me, I need your help dragging Vern and Shua into my place before the neighbors wake up and call neighborhood watch,” you gruff before stepping out of your house slippers into the sandals you keep near the door.

It turns out that there are more people scattered about the front of your place.

There is a car parallel parked against the sidewalk with what looks like two people in the car. Someone picks themself off the small grassy lawn on the other side of the bushes and trudges towards the car while pinching their temple.

Wonwoo nods at you when he passes by looking completely sober. Yet, for somebody who usually looks well-put-together, his hair is a mess while the top few buttons of his dress shirt are unbuttoned…no, missing. What remains are the threads that once attached the buttons to the dress shirt. You notice that he grips three different neckties in his hand but still his loose around his neck. Nevertheless, Wonwoo kicks off his dress shoes, steps over Jeonghan, enters your front door without saying a word, and knocks out on your sofa before his legs can make it onto the cushions.

You turn back to your brother. Joshua wipes his fingers on his pants before he squats on the other side of Vernon to help him up.

“Up,” you tell the both of them.

“I can’t breathe,” Vernon whines while allowing the both of you to help him stand. “My nose isn’t working.”

You sigh and yank the wired earbuds by their cords and out of his nostrils and let them drop before the older man helps his friend into your place. Bending down to grab the bag of fries that Joshua forgot, you see a disturbing amount of hair poking through the crevices of the leafy bush. Someone was dumb enough to black out in the bushes and you can’t tell who it is even after peering over the bush to look at the other half of the body.

“Jeonghan,” you hiss at the man who is trying to discreetly walk back to the car.

He looks back at you and mouths “what” while shrugging his shoulders.

You point at the head in the bush.

“It's Jihoon,” he snorts. He takes the paper bag from your hand and walks back to drop it in the wok that you put to the side before walking back to you. “I think he was supposed to give Vernon his keys but tripped and never got back up. Come to the car with me.”

“Why are you guys here?” you whispered. “I thought that you guys had the entire night planned out.”

“We had the entire night planned out. But then DK started crying and we had to end it early because he wouldn’t stop crying. And then all of us sobered up to try to help him but then it just worsened, so we drove here to get you to get him to stop crying. Some of us couldn’t deal with not being able to solve his problem and just started drinking again.”

“Is that why Jihoon is in the bushes?”

“Well, he never was the patient type,” he hums.

A quick look into the car immediately gets you to understand why someone like Jihoon would end up so drunk that he would dive headfirst into some bushes.

There are dozens of used tissues balled up and overflowing in the tiny hanging trashcan attached to the back of the passenger seat in Wonwoo’s car. There are a few in the laps of the two men sobbing next to each other in the backseats, and you make a mental note to help Wonwoo sanitize the inside of his car before he drives away in the afternoon. Seungcheol releases Seokmin’s seatbelt and looks at you with an apologetic smile on his face.

In all of the years you’ve come to know Seokmin, you have never seen his eyes this puffy.

“Sorry for showing up at your place unannounced. That must have scared you. There was a lot going on,” Seungcheol murmurs to you while giving you a quick hug. “We were making toasts to his future during the party until Vernon made a comment.”

“What did he say?” you asked him, shocked that your brother could even make a comment that would bring your fiancé to such a state.

“It wasn’t bad.” Seungcheol stepped aside from the open car door to let you squat next to your lover. “He just congratulated you on getting married but this dumbass took it the wrong way because he didn't mention Donkey Kong over here in the sentence and thinks you’re getting married to someone else.”

“Someone else!” Seokmin chokes out in a sob while slumped over on Soonyoung’s shoulder. “Why him? Why not me?”

You grab a tissue from the tissue box on the center console and dab at your future husband’s face. The traces of his tears wet the thin paper, and you can feel the heat of his skin through the tissue. With the same hand, you push the bangs stuck to his forehead and his eyelids to the side. You don’t mind that he doesn’t seem to know that you’re there taking care of him.

“Aww baby,” you coo. “I’ll get married to you, don’t worry.”

The familiarity of your comfort seems to lure your fiancé to sleep. A little further from you, Soonyoung continues to sniffle while his eyes are closed. You turn to Seungcheol and Jeonghan with your mouth open and eyebrows scrunched together.

“He’s a drunk crier…” Jeonghan’s words doesn’t leave you guessing anything. “And also Minghao opened his mouth during the bachelor party.” He scratches the back of his head as a sign of stress and embarrassment before looking at Seungcheol and cocking his head at the two knocked out in the car.

Jeonghan has the easier job of coaxing Soonyoung awake to walk him into your place. Seungcheol, on the other hand, takes it upon himself to swing the entire weight of your limp boyfriend like a large sack of rice over his shoulder.

“Do you need me to help with anything?” you ask him.

You don’t know what time it is anymore. The sky is getting brighter, and the temperature is warming up. Your partner looks finally peaceful in his sleep.

“Nah.” Seungcheol softly brushes your request aside. “We’ve already caused enough trouble for you.”

“I feel like I should be the one apologizing,” you joke while trailing behind Seungcheol just in case he needed any help readjusting the body.

“You don’t have to apologize for him.” His words are sincere. “He loves you, you know. He cried his heart out just because he loves you. There’s nothing to apologize for. To be loved is to be cared for. Go back to bed, we’ll probably wake up around dinner time.”

“Do you think anybody grabbed Jihoon?”

[hermesserpent-stuff]

beep boop some sinister scene ideas for brotherhood gambit au, @honey-minded-hivemind

tw:blood drawing

and general creepiness..

it's mister sinister. doctor essex. hes a creep at the best of times.

Remy freezes as  soon as he enters the class. The atmosphere is different. He sees the back of the new teachers head… then he sees the name on the board. Dr. Essex. Remy feels his powers surge and his stomach twists with bile. The man turns and-

The face is not the same. Less pale. The eyes are brown. Not red. Remy takes half a step backwards. The man stares. That same gaze that had sought him out when he was eleven. He gags a little. His powers are bubbling with his fear. Then… 

Remy takes abreath. He squares his shoulder and shuffles a deck of cards. He swagers over to his desk and sits down. He scrunches his nose as Essex raises an eyebrow at him. He flicks up a card. Five of spades. Bad news. Instability. Well that is just delightful.

“Class. I need you all to sit. Immediately.”

The room of teenagers falls deadly silent at the simple soft spoken words. Remy finds his heartbeat flaring to new heights again. He lets out a soft little breath and tuck the deck of cards away. He is not a tiny child anymore. 

--

Other scene idea

----

Remy sits on top of a science table, one leg propping up his book and the other hanging to the side. Blood slolwy slips out into the bag. Essex sits at his teaching desk, flicking through student papers. Essex looks up at Remy as the teen clicks his tongue and scrunches his nose. Essex tilts his head. The teen’s hair is glowing in the setting sun and his thoughtful gaze looks like a mix of… Of Rebecca’s look when reading philosophy books and Adam’s when his son had encountered something bewildering. 

Remy’s hair is the color that his son’s once had been. His face the shape of his dear late wife’s. He had held somewhat similar thoughts in his first encounters with the mutant but had been able to shrug it off. 

Now… 

Not so much. Remy had grown to look so much more like the two that had inspired his journey into human genetics. 

…

Remy looks pale. Sickly. 

“You need to eat more protein to allow the blood to continue to replentish for sucessful testing.”

Essex comments.

“Mmph. Meat don't go on sale often monsieur. And coupons are non-existant for it.”

Essex stands and walks over to Remy. He begins taking out the needle and wipes the skin while the teen winces.

“Then we’ll just have to fix that, won't we?”

“If’n you trying to fix my meals, you gonna have to feed that whole house. I do the cookin’ and I ain't makin’ two sets of meals.”

Remy huffs out, flexing his fingers as Essex pushes a cotton ball onto the wound and tapes it into place. 

“Then that's what I’ll do. It would not do for the next generation of mutants to grow up malnourished. And… unkempt.”

He touches Remy’s slightly greasy hair and Remy scowls at him and jerks back.

“Not my fault the water stopped workin’ two days back. And no plumber gonna work for the amount I got tucked away. I'll get someone next week after runnin’ a job.”

Essex starts clearing up the blood bag and ceilings everything up. 

“You getting arrested would do me no good. No. I’ll have a plumber come.”

“I don't take favors from you.”

Remy snarls.

“Take it as payment then. For services rendered.”

Essex places the blood in the cooler. 

“Makes it sound gross. I’m doin’ this so you keep your mitts off the other-”

Remy makes a noise and falls. Essex catches him telekinetically. 

“Careful now.”

He gets a scowl.

“Let go. I woulda caught myself.”

“Yes yes, proud master thief. Now, think of the food and plumber as payments for the psych examinations. The willing blood draws will keep your… friends from my scalpels and needles.”

Remy rolls his eyes as Essex lifts him up and sits him down on the desk. The thief settles as Essex moves to grab some food to make sure the teen does not fall once he leaves the room. 

“Fine. I'll take it. Mais, it better be enough for feedin’ four teenage boys.”

The teen hums and Essex can see him running calculations in his head. The kid is delightfully clever with numbers.

“Here.”

He passes over food and a card. Remy narrows his eyes at the card.

“It has a weekly limit of $1000. Should be enough to feed a crowd of teens.”

Remy makes a noise.

“You're crazy.”

Remy snorts, tucking the card away. Essex smiles.

“You say the kindest things.”

“Oui.”

Remy bites into the peanut butter crackers and hums lightly. Essex flicks his fingers and all of Remy’s things tick themselves away.

[kzlatkova]

Write me secret codes, and notes, and pages.

In letters, and ramblings and doodles.

On a gold foiled card, or brown paper cardboard.

On a ketchup stained napkin, or rain soaked newspaper.

On a pamphlet corner, a calendar square, or an old shred of giftwrap.

On a receipt for onions, an invoice for tires, or a greasy burger king bag.

Write me anything.

And I will love every sentence, word, sylable and coma.

I will love them, because they are yours.

And because by your hand, all of it, becomes ours.

[king-finnigan]

Keep the Door Ajar ch. 1

Fandom: Arcane Ship: Jayvik Summary:

After the explosion in his apartment, Jayce is banished to Zaun, where he becomes a mechanic. When he meets Viktor, the apothecary across the street from his shop, he's enchanted by him, though as a newcomer in the Undercity, he tries to keep his distance. That is, until he unexpectedly finds himself caring for Powder, a child who has who recently lost her only family in a conflict caused by Jayce's very own hexcrystals. But he can't do it alone. Luckily, there's a healer across the street from him who can help him navigate his newfound home and family. And if Jayce is head over heels for this mysterious healer? Well, that's nobody's business but his own.

Also on AO3!

The facade of the shop is the same as every other he's passed since he's entered the Undercity: colourless, dilapidated and covered in a greasy layer of chemicals and soot. The only thing identifying it as belonging to Jayce's family - and to Jayce himself, now - is the characteristic golden hammer on the sign that hangs above the sturdy door.

Jayce sighs. His new home.

He still finds it hard to believe that in the past twenty-four hours, he's lost everything that he's ever known: his home, his family, his research, his very right to be in Piltover.

Banished to the Undercity. If he'd known the price of progress would be this high, he wouldn't have started his research at all. But hindsight is everything, and unfortunately, he's here now. No use in wallowing in this bitterness, he tells himself, though he still finds it hard to swallow away the bitter lump in his throat.

Banished. For a simple fucking science experiment. He never meant to do any harm to anyone - and he hadn’t. Everything he did, every rule he broke, had all been in an attempt to help people.

He sighs and drops his bag on the ground next to him. No use in dwelling on it now. What’s done is done.

The tools inside the bag clang against each other as he searches for the key in his pocket, a rusty, old thing that his mother had stowed away in the back of a long forgotten drawer somewhere. The shop had been a venture of one of his grandfathers, an attempt to expand his business into other parts of the city, bridge the divide and try to capitalize off of it at the same time. 

But the Undercity has never been kind to strangers from Topside, no matter how well meaning they are and how good their tools are, and the shop had been given up long ago. Still, it hadn't been sold, a combination of a lack of time and a lack of buyers, and it has stood abandoned here since, waiting for the moment someone desperately needed a place to stay outside of the Piltover because they were banished for a science experiment gone wrong. Lucky Jayce.

The door creaks on its metal hinges as it swings open inwards, leaving a track of cleared dust in its wake on the tile floors. It's dark - the windows guarded on the outside with metal grates to protect them from vandals - and Jayce has to slap the wall a few times to find the light switch. A lone bulb flickers to life in the middle of the ceiling, casting hesitant light on a room that has lived in darkness for years. 

The floors are made of drab, brown tiles, covered in a layer of dust while the brick walls don their own drapery of spider webs. In the far right corner, a forge opens its gaping, black maw, an abandoned anvil dozing in front of it and a wooden workbench pushed against the wall next to it. More workbenches line the left back wall, some scattered with ancient, corroded tools and disintegrated, yellow paper, others only holding nothing but possibilities. 

Looking around him a bit more, he can see that one of the barred windows isn't a window, but a large rolling door, probably to bring in machinery that is too large to fit through the front door. Convenient. That is, if the thing isn't rusted into place. He decides he'll have to find that out another time.

He picks his bag up from outside the shop, mentally cursing himself for having turned his back on it. If there's one thing he’s been told about the Undercity since he was a small child, it's that its people like to take things that aren't technically theirs. Especially if it belongs to a Piltie, as they call people from Topside – something which he’s found out over the past hour or so as he made his way to the shop. He's lucky this street isn't a well-travelled one, or his bag would’ve been long gone.

He sighs again, remembering the long walk here. It had been hard enough to leave the city he was born in, the city he loves for the very last time after saying a tearful goodbye to his mother. But crossing the bridge into unknown, enemy territory, had been another beast entirely.

And enemy territory it was, as he soon found out.

Eyes had followed him, a few at first, then more and more the deeper he went. People missing limbs, teeth, and various other body parts, leering at him, his freshly cut hair - something his mother had insisted on doing for him one last time - his clean clothes, his ten fingers and unblemished face and he’d felt their disdain.

But can he blame them? He’s a stranger, an outsider, a rich guy in their eyes, intruding upon their peace. He doesn’t belong here.

No one had attacked him, not yet, at least. But he’d heard a few hisses as he had passed. Piltie, said with such hate that he’d almost considered turning around and going back, catching a boat in the harbour and taking his chances in a different city altogether.

But there he would have nothing. Here, he at least has the shop.

He has to try.

As he turns to close the door behind him, a sound draws his eye. A soft tinkling; musical notes that clash so weirdly and wonderfully with the mechanic whirring that forms the background thrum he's been hearing ever since he's entered the Undercity. He looks across the street and spots another shop. 

Unlike most of the abandoned buildings in the street, it’s clean. Dark metal has been wrought into large arches, like waves crashing on the shore, framing massive windows made of glass slightly tinged by the constant vapours that drift through the streets of the Undercity – yet somehow whole in a place that seems to consist solely of broken glass. They’re curtained on the inside by course, dark-purple fabric, though a warm, inviting light filters through them. The door, rounded at the top and painted the same purple as the curtains, is shut firmly. The sign above is as clear as it can be: a mortar and a pestle with the word 'Apothecary' in elegant lettering beneath it. Next to it, twinkling lightly in the foul air are windchimes.

Jayce stands there for a second, enthralled by the sight of something so clean and elegant, so welcoming in a city that's been anything but so far. Then he tears himself loose from the spell and shuts his own door. Better not to stare, he doesn’t want to draw attention to himself and stay outside any longer than needs be.

He leaves tracks in the thick dust as he walks to the back of the shop towards the wooden door labelled 'Private' in rusted gilded letters. Behind it is more darkness, more dustiness and more of that odd smell that's enveloped him like a wet blanket ever since he walked further into the building. It's musty and stings in his nostrils and throat - dust and age and maybe some of the chemicals that seem to pervade the Undercity in travelling clouds. 

Another lonely lightbulb, another room that's seen better days. 

The floor is made of wood this time, though the walls are the same brick as the workshop. Mercifully, the person who was here last decided to drape sheets over the furniture to keep most of the dust at bay. He pulls them off one by one: a simple wooden table and two chairs in one corner in front of a kitchenette, a cot complete with mattress and pillows on the other side with a set of drawers at the foot. Yet another corner houses a desk. No chair, but he decides he can easily use one from the dining table. He's all alone anyways. A door in the right wall houses a small, tiled bathroom, right behind the forge. Clever, he muses to himself, an easy, cheap way to heat water.

He turns in a circle, looking at his living quarters. They're dirty, basic and cramped - his family has never been the richest of the Piltover houses, but still this is so different to what he has at home. Or what he had at home. 

Still, he tries to think optimistically, it could be worse and a little bit of cleaning will liven the place right up.

He sighs. Well, no better time to start than now, he supposes.

--

He’s found a broom leaning against one of the benches in the workshop and after a few hours and a lot of swearing and sweating, he thinks he’s managed to sweep most of the dust and the cobwebs out of all the rooms.

Some expired cleaning products have the floor, the forge and the leftover tools shining like gems, his nostrils burning and eyes watering from the harsh vapours. He stands with his hands on his hips, satisfied as he looks around. It’s still not the best, but a lot better than it was a few hours ago.

His stomach rumbles and he wonders what time it is. It was morning when he left Piltover and he wandered the streets of the Undercity for a few hours, looking for the right house, getting accosted by the locals and quickly walking away from them and getting even more lost in the process. Add to that the few hours of cleaning he’s just done and it must be right around dinnertime.

He sits down at the table in the living room, carefully unwrapping the food his mom had packed him before he left. During cleaning, his mind has been as occupied as his body and he hadn’t been able to think about his circumstances, but now that he sees the lovingly wrapped sandwiches cut in triangles as he’s liked since a child, it hits him.

He’s alone now. Truly and utterly alone in a foreign place with no one to fall back on, no one to return to. His old life is gone – the Academy, his childhood home, his mother – ripped away in an instant because of a mistake he was too stupid to realize he was making. And all that remains, a carefully wrapped meal, right in front of him.

He lets his head fall into his hands as a gaping hole opens in his chest, fear and anger and grief and longing for his old life ravaging him from the inside. And for the first time since his lab exploded, he sobs.

Once the tears fall, there’s no stopping them and he curls into himself to shield him from the outside world, his memories, his feelings, from anything, and he sobs and sobs and sobs like he hasn’t since he was a small child and his mother was dying in the snow in front of him. It feels good yet at the same time it’s like he’s drowning – in fond memories, in regret, in his own tears – and leaves him heaving for every breath of putrid, stinging air until it feels like his lungs are on fire with the chemicals.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there crying. He doesn’t care to know, really, but by the time the tears abate and the sobs grow more infrequent and less painful, everything hurts. The muscles in his chest are sore from the crying, as is his throat, his back and arms ache from the cleaning and his joint from the cold that has started to seep into the room and the rickety chair. Worst of all, his head hurts. Throbbing, nauseating pain emanating from behind his eyes and blurring the edges of his vision with every heartbeat.

He stumbles off the chair, rewraps the food his mother made him – God, the food – and manages to stagger his way to the bed before collapsing on it. The sheets and pillows are far from clean, still in need of a thorough washing, but right now he doesn’t care. All he cares about is the soft, blue blanket he pulls from his bag, a remnant of his childhood, a painful yet soothing reminder of his old bedroom.

It still smells like home.

He pushes it against his nose, the headache slowly subsiding as the familiar scent envelops him, thoughts blurring into a mass of colours and movement and slowly, quietly, gently, he drifts off to sleep.

--

He finds a market not too far from his new home with a few decent-looking shops around it. He spends the little money he and his mother managed to scrape together before he was forced to leave there on new clothes, sheets, food and scrap machine parts. 

He’s pretty sure the shop owners took one look at him, recognized him as an outsider and charged him double what the stuff is worth and his wallet is ruefully light afterwards, but it’s better than nothing. At least with the new clothes – a shirt and slacks made of rough woven fabric, both patched in several places – he could be mistaken for a Zaunite, if one doesn’t look too closely.

The rolling door in his shop and the metal shutter in front of the window are rusted at the hinges, as expected, but it’s nothing some oil, a lot of muscle work and a few muttered curses can’t solve.

And then he’s open for business.

He sits behind one of the work benches, tinkering with a few cogs and screws he got at the market. His mind strays as his hands work of their own accord, twisting metal with his tongs, soldering and cutting and screwing parts together. A familiar shape emerges - a small robot with movable limbs, its head a half-round circle that sticks up from a square chest, arms and legs gangly but able to keep it up.

He smiles softly at it. 

He’d made something like this ages ago, when he’d just started at the Academy. It’d been one of his first assignments and the thing that had finally distinguished him from the other students, drawing attention and approval from the professors.

He’d named his little creation Blitzcrank, he vaguely remembers. 

In the silence of the workshop, he can hear the sounds coming from outside: the eternal thrum of the mining equipment in the fissures and the ventilators underneath the streets and soft, melodic tinkling.

That damn tinkling. It’s… captivating, in a way. There’s no melody to it, the notes go up and down, up and down, coming quickly and then slowing down only to pick back up when another gust of foul air brings the small metal rods into motion again.

He wonders who the music belongs to, who decided to bring life to an otherwise deserted, broken street. Who took one look at this place and opened a shop with large, inviting windows and soft purple curtains and wind chimes outside the front door.

The apothecary. It’s a title Jayce has rarely ever heard in his time in Piltover. They had pharmacists, yes, and hospitals and physicians and doctors. But no apothecaries. The word invokes something within him, a vision of herbs hanging from the ceiling and incense burning on the windowsill, of esotericism and spells and amulets.

He shakes the thought away. He’s being ridiculous and he should focus on fixing this damn lamp so maybe he can sell it to the next customer.

And yet. That damn tinkling, pushing its way into his mind. 

He looks up and through his slightly dirtied window, giving him a tinged vision of the street outside – and the apothecary’s shop. The same inviting, warm light shines through the curtains and as he looks, the door opens and a customer steps outside. An old man, bent and weathered from the harsh years spent in the Undercity, clutching a clay jar against his chest, the edge of a label barely visible from the angle Jayce is looking at. But, strangest of all, is the man’s facial expression.

It's calm. Relaxed. Almost content.

Now, Jayce hasn’t spent a long time in Zaun, but every single person he’s encountered has had the same facial expression of stress, fatigue and a tinge of angry defiance. Life in the Undercity is hard and unforgiving and doesn’t lend itself to relaxing. There’s always something to worry about, always some new calamity waiting to happen – whether it’s the return of the Grey, of the enforcers, a job that gets taken away or the gangs that roam the streets – there’s always a new threat around the corner, ready to strike when you’re least expecting it.

So to see someone calm and serene, a half-smile ghosting across their lips… It’s a new experience for Jayce.

But it happens again. And again, and again.

As he sits at the same work bench every day, waiting for customers that never arrive, starting and finishing little projects, making trinkets that no one will ever buy and fixing household devices that he finds on random street corners, person after person visits the apothecary’s across the street. A constant drip-drip-drip of sick and desperate people disappearing through the purple door, their faces pinched with pain or worry or sorrow when they enter, only for the expression to disappear when they step back outside shortly after. Some leave with a brown jar in their hands, some with a small bundle of herbs, some with nothing but a bounce in their step that wasn’t there before. But without fault, without exception, each and every person leaves without their worries.

It's nothing short of miraculous.

And it leaves Jayce very, very suspicious.

He doesn’t know what goes on behind those large, curtained windows, but whatever it is, it can’t be right. Not even the best doctor in Piltover could cure every patient, make every illness or ailment go away. Before the week is over, he’s concluded that whoever runs the shop must be a quack or a con man or a healthy mix of the two.

And still, by the end of the week, he hasn’t gotten any customers. Just his luck.

---

The next Freeday, he goes to the market to pick up some new broken devices and scraps. He’s still visibly an outsider, but with his second hand clothes and his hair slowly growing out of its perfect cut, he’s sure that within no time, he might stop drawing so much attention and so many scowls. The stall owners still scam him out of more money than he can afford to spend, but some of them recognize him and greet him with neutrality or mild annoyance, which is infinitely better than the sneers and jeers he’d gotten the first time.

As he walks back to his shop with his arms filled with cardboard boxes of old broken devices he might be able to blow some life back into, he feels light on his feet. Despite the circumstances, he feels his old optimism returning to him, the dark clouds above his head parting to let some sunshine into his mind.

That is, until he finds his front door wide open.

He freezes for a second, until his instincts take over.

“Hey!” he shouts, barging inside, dumping the boxes right inside the door against the wall. “Hey! Who’s in here?”

He walks a few steps inside to see if someone is hiding behind one of the heavy work benches. Which is his first mistake.

A shadow blurs past him and out of the front door.

“Dammit!” He turns, running after it, not looking where he’s going. His second mistake.

Whoever was inside has turned over an oil canister behind them, and his foot slips in it, his shoulder slamming painfully onto the tiles of the workshop as his ankle doubles over. He shouts in surprise and pain, nearly falling again as he tries and finally manages to get up, rushing out of the door, his right side slick with oil.

He’s just in time to see a small child disappear into a side alley, a mischievous grin on his face as he makes off with a rucksack full of Jayce’s belongings.

He runs after the kid in a desperate effort to catch up, but when he gets to the mouth of the alley, it’s empty.

“Fuck!” He slams his fist against the wall, frustration and anger making him see red, heat pulsing through his veins and warming his cheeks in embarrassment. Robbed in broad daylight, by a damn child. 

He feels like an idiot .

“Am I interrupting?” A voice bounces through the narrow street, a foreign accent curling around words tinged with a hint of amusement.

Jayce feels his cheeks warm even more. Just his luck; not only has his shop been burgled by a kid less than half his age, but someone else has witnessed his idiocy. And seems amused by it.

“What the hell is your problem?” he spits, turning to the sound of the voice. 

He’s slightly taken aback at the sight that meets him: a man, about his height, though slightly hunched over and leaning some of his weight on the cane in his left hand to unburden his right leg, which is wrapped in a metal brace. Unruly, dark brown hair frames a face made entirely out of angles and dotted with a few artfully placed moles. But his eyes are what capture Jayce’s attention the most. They’re a striking amber and seem to be staring right into his soul, piercing in a way he’s never experienced before, as if the man knows his every inner thought just by looking at him.

And they are, in fact, slightly crinkled by amusement.

“Here to laugh at me?” Jayce asks, venom lacing his voice.

“No, of course not,” the man says. He hesitates. “Maybe a bit.” The corners of his mouth lift up slightly. Jayce deflates, anger leaving him in a rush as embarrassment floods him.

“Alright,” he relents, looking down at his oil-stained clothes. “I do admit I may look a bit ridiculous.”

The man’s features soften slightly, those piercing eyes looking Jayce up and down. “What happened?”

Jayce sighs, wiping his clean hand over his face. “Got robbed, I guess. By a child.”

“Robbed?”

“Yeah.” Jayce gestures to his storefront, the door still open. “Just got back from the market and found him rummaging inside. I don’t know what he took, but I don’t have a lot at the moment, so it’s a big loss either way.” He sighs.

“So you’re the mechanic that’s just moved in there?”

“Yup. That’s me.” He can’t help the tinge of despair that creeps into his voice. “Though I’m afraid I’ll have to move back out again soon. Don’t have much left.” And God, does he hate the thought of packing up his stuff and leaving the country completely. Though maybe it is better to move to a new city, somewhere he doesn’t get robbed blind by a literal kid.

The stranger cocks his head slightly. “What did he look like? The child?”

Jayce furrows his eyebrows. “Uh, I’m not sure, actually. Short?” The man snorts. “He had white hair. I saw that much.”

The man nods thoughtfully, though Jayce can see the corners of his mouth curl up. “I see,” he simply says. Then, he turns around and walks away, his slightly uneven gait punctuated by a soft clack of his cane as he goes.

“Wait!” Jayce says, but the stranger has already turned a corner and disappeared out of sight.

He sighs. “Alright, nice talking to you, then,” he mutters to himself as he makes his way back to his shop. He has to change into clean clothes and take stock of what’s been taken. A great way to end his first week in Zaun.

---

Though it’s been a few hours after he’s changed into clean clothes and scrubbed at his arms and legs until the stains were gone, he can still smell a whiff of engine oil every time he shifts his weight on the uncomfortable wooden stool at his workbench.

He sighs, raking a hand through his hair for the umpteenth time, staring at the cogs and screws on the scarred tabletop with unseeing eyes. Most of his finished projects have been stolen and a few of his tools as well. It’s not much, nothing special really but it is- was most of what he had. What bothers him the most was that the culprit took Blitzcrank and the sandwich his mother made.

He shakes his head, frustrated at himself. It doesn’t matter. The robot was just a few pieces of scrap metal soldered together to form a homunculus and the sandwich- well, if he’s honest with himself, he likely wasn’t going to eat it anyways. Too many memories. Too much pain.

He startles out of his thoughts when a knock comes at the door. He frowns; he isn’t expecting anyone at the moment and a potential customer would just come in instead of knocking. Though, belatedly, he realizes he left the shutter down in front of the window this morning, since he went to the market and wasn’t planning on opening the shop anyways.

Which also means he can’t see who’s knocking.

He sighs. This day just can’t get better, he thinks to himself as he walks to the door to open it.

For a split second, as he does, he expects to be met with piercing amber eyes. He has to push away a slight pang of disappointment when he’s not.

He blinks up at the burly man outside, not used to seeing someone that matches his height. “Oh. Hello.”

“Afternoon!” the man says, eyes smiling behind his small, round glasses. “I’ve uh… Well…” He chuckles as he claps his hand on the shoulder of the boy in front of him, drawing Jayce’s attention to him. “ Someone here has something to confess.”

Jayce stares for a second before recognition dawns on him. “You,” he breathes, right as anger takes over. “You stole from me!”

The boy has the wherewithal to look ashamed, head turned away, though Jayce can still see a hint of defiance in the way his cheeks redden and his brow furrows.

“Listen.” The man sighs. “I’m sorry about what happened. I’ve tried to teach him not to steal, but the kid has a mind of his own.”

He hands a leather bag to Jayce and a quick peek inside lifts the weight from his shoulders. His stuff, all there and unharmed.

The spark he saw in the kid erupts. “But he’s a Piltie, Benzo! ”

“Ekko!” The man, Benzo, spits at him, grabbing the collar of his shirt and shaking him a little. “I’ve told you before, it doesn’t matter. He lives here now. He’s just as much at risk of facing the Grey or the enforcers or the chem barons as any of us.” The man’s grey sideburns move as he clenches his jaw before sighing, pushing the child slightly forward. “Now apologize.”

Ekko groans in frustration but faces Jayce nonetheless. “I am sorry for stealing your stuff, I promise not to break into your badly locked shop again,” he drones, refusing to meet his eyes.

“ Ekko,” Benzo hisses, but Jayce cuts him off with a wave of his hand.

“It’s alright. I accept your apology, Ekko.” He hesitates, furrowing his brow. “How is my shop badly locked?”

The corners of the boy’s lips curl up. “You’ve only got one lock, for starters,” he says, finally raising his eyes to Jayce’s face. “And it’s an old one, too. Completely rusted. I barely had to jam my pick in there and it was open.” He grins. “Honestly, if I didn’t do it, someone else would’ve sooner or later.”

Benzo sighs. “Incorrigible,” he mutters.

---

A few drinks and a lecture on proper locks from a child thief later, they’re sitting at Jayce’s usual workbench as he inspects his items laid out in front of him, checking them for damage.

“You know, Jayce,” Benzo muses, picking up Blitzcrank, luckily unharmed. “This really caught my eye earlier, as did the other toys.” He moves one of the arms, joints smoothly rolling in their sockets. “Did you make them yourself?”

Jayce shrugs, tearing his gaze away from the robot, heat rising to his cheeks. “Yeah. Just to pass the time, really. I know they’re silly, I didn’t mean for anyone to actually see them.”

“I like them,” Ekko chimes in, grabbing a spinning top from the table and setting it in motion with a flick of his wrist. It spins in place, the little notches in the edge creating a mesmerizing pattern.

Benzo nods. “They’re good. A little rough around the edges,” he concedes, making Jayce chuckle. “But I think you can do something with them. Sell them, if you want.”

Jayce furrows his brows. “Seriously? I thought people here wouldn’t really care for them. I mean, they don’t really do anything…”

Benzo looks at him over the rim of his glasses, his eyes softening. “I know you’re from Topside, so let me tell you something, Jayce. Here in the Undercity…” He sighs. “There aren’t a lot of pretty things, nice things. Things that only exist to bring joy. But people still crave it- they’re only human. We’re only human. I think, with these things,” he gently turns Blitzcrank around in his hands, “you can remind them of that joy. You can bring it back to them.”

He can only gape at Benzo. “Really? That’s…” The kindest thing anyone’s ever said to me. He swallows his words, ducking his head instead. “That’s very nice of you.”

“It’s the truth.” Benzo leans back, smiling kindly at him as he folds his tree trunks of arms in front of him. “I think you can sell quite a few of these.”

“Unfortunately I don’t get any customers, though,” Jayce admits.

Benzo waves it away. “You’re new, those things take time. Tell you what, Ekko and I have our own stall at the market every Freeday. You can display a few of these there and we’ll see if they sell.”

“Really?” His chest fills with a warmth he hasn’t felt since the trial, eyes prickling as he’s faced with unexpected kindness and brittle hope. “But I’m not able to pay you.”

“Eh, I don’t want your money. Or lack thereof,” Benzo chuckles. “It’s not easy out here, and as I told young Ekko earlier,” he ruffles his hand through the boy’s white hair, “you live here. That makes you one of us now. And we take care of our own.”

Jayce can’t help the broad grin that splits his face. “I don’t know how I could ever thank you.”

Benzo laughs. “Let’s just wait and see whether these sell or not, alright?”

[copperbadge]

Am I working on Royals/Ramblers? No. Am I writing one-off short fics based on AO3 comments? Might be!

@annechen-melo pointed out that in Fete, Eddie asks Gregory what passes for diner food in Shivadh culture, and Gregory replies Eddie might know better than he would, meanwhile a book later we find out about Shivadh Fried Breakfast, which is clearly exactly the kind of food Eddie would want to know about. I was like “Haha yeah he maybe just didn’t think about it” and then I realized Eddie’s reaction and...wrote a short story in comments. :D 

---

Gregory wasn't aware Eddie had even gone out for breakfast until he heard his name called, looked up from his desk, and was pelted in the head with something cold and greasy. It bounced off and fell to his desk, where it turned out to be a fried chicken wing.

Eddie stood in the doorway. He looked incensed.

"I don't know what I did," Gregory said carefully, "but whatever made you just throw a chicken wing at my head, I'm sorry I did it."

"Fried breakfast," Eddie announced. Gregory gave him a mystified look. "I have lived here for FIVE MONTHS, Greg, I have fried so much food in your kitchen, five months' worth of fried food, and I had to discover Shivadh fried breakfast for myself. I'm DATING THE SHIVADH KING AND -- "

"Okay, okay, message received," Gregory said, holding up his hands, one of which still held the chicken wing.

"Message NOT received! I asked you about diner food! You said you didn't know!"

"Well, I mean," Gregory began, then ducked pre-emptively as Eddie took another chicken wing out of the bag in his hands. Instead of throwing it, he sat down at Gregory's desk and began eating it. "It's not diner food per se. It's. You know. It's beach food."

"How have you gone five months without ever once taking me out for fried breakfast?" Eddie asked. "How do you live in a country where you can just say to someone 'fried breakfast' and they serve you a full meal, and not eat it at least once a week?"

"Well, it's not great for the cardiac health," Gregory said carefully, "and as you say you've fried a lot of food for me, so...I wasn't really missing it."

"I literally built my career on the kind of place that will serve me hash browns and fried mushrooms and fried dumplings on top of the mushrooms all on one fast-disintegrating paper plate!" Eddie seethed.

"I could go for some fried mushrooms," Gregory said thoughtfully. Eddie seethed harder. "Okay, okay. I am sorry. It didn't occur to me. I don't eat it a lot! And your food was so good I didn't miss it."

Eddie subsided a little at that, but he waved the surviving portion of his chicken wing as he spoke.

"I will accept your apology, conditionally," he said. "Tomorrow is Saturday and I want you to take me to the best Fried Breakfast place you know of."

"Well, it won't be wherever you went today," Gregory said. Eddie frowned at him. "Traditional fried breakfast shacks don't serve chicken wings. They think it's bougie."

"....you let me get BOUGIE fried breakfast?" Eddie yelled.

"Did you get a sufganiyah with it?" Gregory asked.

"No! Was I supposed to?"

"Well, you have to order it King's Touch, if you do that they give you the donut, or they're supposed to anyway. It's because dad likes a jelly donut."

Eddie stared at him. "So you're telling me that not only did I get bougie fried breakfast, I could have had a jelly donut on top of it?"

"I need you to remember that you love me and I'm taking you out for fried breakfast tomorrow," Gregory said.

"Oh, now you're not just taking me for fried breakfast, we're going on a tour," Eddie said. "You're taking me to at least three different fried breakfasts."

"Three," Gregory repeated faintly.

"I no longer trust you to actually know where the best fried breakfast is. I'm texting your dad and Jerry and Alanna to ask them," Eddie said, texting literally as he spoke. "I will also be asking Simon, who will probably swear at me in French. We are going to do a tourism video entirely based around fried breakfast, because the world needs to know and you, king of this entire country, are falling down on the job."

"Well, that's why I have you," Gregory reasoned. "I'll, you know, pass the tax reforms, you tell the world about how we...miraculously don't die of heart disease in our thirties after being raised on fried breakfast."

Eddie's phone beeped. He looked down at it.

"Your dad says he won't tell me unless I sign an NDA," he said.

"Man's got to protect his access to sufganiyot," Gregory remarked. "Please don't throw chicken wings at him."

"I save all my ballistic chicken wings for you," Eddie informed him, sighing and getting up. He leaned across the desk to kiss Gregory where the wing had hit him in the forehead. "You are a hopeless case and I love you."

"You are the weirdest person I know and I love you too," Gregory said. "Go, enjoy your bougie chicken wings."

"Tomorrow morning! Bright and early, fried breakfast!" Eddie announced as he left. Gregory sighed and made a note to weasel out of his father the name of his favorite fry shack. If Dad wanted him married off, he had a vested interest in keeping Eddie happy.

[waterdeep-weavemoss]

To Sleep With War

Modern AU Doephael.

Doe wrung her hands and stepped gingerly into the Yule party. She tottered in heeled boots, a tasteful cinnamon brown against the warm cream of cable-knit tights. She tugged self consciously at the hem of her faux suede skirt- it was borrowed, shorter than she was used to and flimsy feeling. The jumper was hers though, a big draping thing that near swallowed her in bright red fabric.

The room was sparsely decorated, with one sad tree in the corner draped with red and gold tinsel, the half facing out dotted with cheap shiny baubles. The gift boxes beneath were just empty, wrapped with the vestiges of paper from last year. Her colleagues milled about- there was Rolan, chatting animatedly with his siblings, Alfira and her girlfriend, and then Wyll’s father and Florrick, arguing in the corner.

Scanning the room- a standard hotel function with its greige walls and threadbare stained carpet- she spotted her boss. Hunching her shoulders, she slunk off in the opposite direction. I do not want to deal with you right now. Instead, she slunk around the edge of the room, watching for her friends. Ancunin’s hair would be easiest to spot, white as starlight as it was.

‘Don’t worry, Dodo,’ drawled a voice from her left. ‘I’ll protect you from that greasy little creep if I have to.’

‘Astarion,’ she yelped, turning. ‘How many times-‘

He cut her off. ‘Too many, I’m sure.’ She scowled in reproach and he sighed. ‘Oh, alright, you spoilsport. Doe. Sweet darling timid little Doe, when are you going to grow a spine?’ He stood there in his splendour, all in emerald green. The colour brought out his eyes, the olive depths of them flecked with honey. ‘You scrub up well, don’t you?’

‘You sound surprised.’ She did not have the energy to be insulted. ‘No no,’ he insisted. ‘I always knew there was a glamour-puss under the layers of exhausted, dogged loyalty to that prick,’ he glanced over. ‘Gortash doesn’t deserve your hard work. Or your sharp little brain.’ He tapped her forehead, throwing her a megawatt grin. ‘Come with me.’ He took her hand and drew her through the milling crowd- she spotted the Vanthampurs, the Thorms, several colleagues she’d never spoken to. ‘I need you to save Gale from himself. He’s going spare.’

‘Why?’

‘Oh, you’ll see.’

He led her to a corner table at the back of the room. Lae’zel, Wyll, and Karlach were sprawled in their chairs, and Gale was talking animatedly, frowning. ‘-see, the problem with having not just colleagues but donors present is that it technically means we’re still working-‘

‘Oh, do be quiet, Dekarios,’ griped Astarion as they approached. ‘Have some wine.’

‘I will not,’ said Gale, his nostrils flaring. ‘That stuff is vinegar. And not the good kind.’

‘Vodka?’ said Doe, producing a slim hip flask from her shoulder bag.

‘Hello Doe,’ said Gale, moving to hug her briefly. He smelled like the museum library. ‘Why did you bring vodka?’

‘If you have to ask,’ cut in Karlach, raising a brow, ‘then you’ve bonked your head.’

‘Ah,’ he said, nodding sympathetically. ‘Of course.’

‘You alright there, soldier?’

‘Can’t complain.’

‘Bollocks,’ said Wyll, jabbing a finger at her for emphasis. ‘That scabby little wanker treats you the worst of all of us. You’ve got every right to complain, love.’

‘Mhm, fair.’ She took a swig. ‘If you were Gort’s secretary you’d probably drink yourself into a stupor, too.’

‘Hear hear,’ came Shadowheart’s soft voice. ‘Have you been arguing with people again?’ Raising a brow at Gale, she crossed her arms.

‘Not at all, my love. Merely a lively discussion about why in the hells we’re expected to work at our own Yule party.’ He pulled her in to kiss her soundly, drawing twin noises of disgust from Lae’zel and Astarion.

‘I don’t much care, so long as we can all get trolleyed and sing bad karaoke.’

‘Jen-‘

‘Ah,’ she put a finger to his lips.

‘Shadowheart.’ He kissed her finger. ‘I’m just saying it’s important.’

Doe leaned against the table, still anxious. Wyll and Karlach started a game of snap behind her, Astarion nursing a glass of swill. She examined her nails, their glossy red suddenly feeling cheap against the hotel backdrop. There was a buffet on the opposite wall, but she dare not approach; her memories of the last one flashed through her mind, a night spent on the bathroom floor emptying the contents of her stomach.

‘I will say,’ she piped up, turning. ‘This fiasco is not my fault. I was off sick the day this place was booked. It was actually Orin’s incompetence. I would’ve booked a stately home or something, but it was too late to change the booking, and-‘

‘Where is that secretary of mine?’ she heard too late. Snapped from her rant by a hand on her shoulder, she was steered away too quickly, stumbling slightly in her heels. ‘There you are,’ said Gortash, his breath heavy with booze. ‘I want to show you off. You look fantastic.’

Oh no. ‘But-'

‘No no, this night will go off without a hitch,’ he said cheerily, a hint of threat in his voice. ‘As long as you do your damned job.’ ‘But I’m not working,’ she started.

‘Who pays your wages?’ he hissed. ‘That’s right. Me. Now get over here and charm these bastards, or you’re fired.’ His voice was low, so as not to call attention, and she bristled at his overly familiar touch.

Her shoulders slumped. I fucking hate you. ‘Right,’ she said flatly. She’d already written his speech- tonight was supposed to be a gala, a shindig, whatever the hells they called it when a load of insufferable-

‘Ketheric, you’ve met Doe before.’

‘Ah,’ said a man she recognised. ‘Yes. I seem to remember you as accomplished. Congratulations on being above the rest of this rabble.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ she said. Judgy bastard.

‘Most accomplished, yes,’ said Gortash. ‘Though I am certain she has other more useful talents.’

She shuddered, disgusted at the oiliness of his tone. He squeezed her shoulder in warning. ‘I read Classics,’ she supplied pointedly. ‘Specifically studying the intersection between the…’ she began, though the words died as her boss dug his yellowing nails in, painfully. ‘I mean,’ she said, suddenly sounding saccharine. ‘I have to say, the Watch has really expanded its scope, and in the new year we’re hoping to put all this generous funding to use on the new site. I’m sure you’re aware of the challenges we’re facing? Protesters and activists, the journalists are not happy with the state of progress. Your generosity is wonderful and very much needed.’

‘Good girl,’ murmured Gortash low in her ear as she finished her spiel, feeling bile rise in her throat. He let her go and wandered tipsily off to harass a waitress, and Doe let out a breath.

‘Well,’ said Ketheric politely. ‘I think maybe you’ve twisted my arm, Doe. I shall have to have a think about what we can give once dinner is concluded. Isn’t it true that places like this are only as good as their admin?’ He winked, turning away to talk to his wife, an ethereal looking woman in silver and white. Doe rolled her shoulders and clenched her fists, breathing through her mouth in an effort not to throw up. The clock on the wall read as barely 8pm, and already she wanted desperately to go home and scrub herself clean. She took a couple tottering steps back towards her friends, but warm fingers closed around her wrist, halting her. She turned, half expecting Gortash’s return.

‘Forgive me,’ said the man who held her arm. ‘I heard you mention you studied Classics, and I’d be fascinated to hear more. Would you please?’ He gestured to the chair across from him and she nodded, standing awkwardly. He was handsome in a rich man sort of way- sharply pressed Italian cut suit, neatly combed dark hair, and skin that clearly saw the sun. But it was his voice, the low, growling purr of it, that arrested her attention. He threw her a charming smile, eyes glittering like the two fingers of cognac in the glass on the table. ‘You’re shaking,’ he pointed out.

She was, she realised. Her hands trembled at her sides. Exhaling, she tried to smile. ‘Oh, I’m fine, actually, I think I should go back to my friends.’

‘Take a moment. He scares you, doesn’t he?’

Astute. ‘No.’

‘Come now,’ he said, looking unimpressed. ‘If you can’t be honest with a stranger, who can you be honest with?’

‘A little.’

‘He treats you poorly.’

‘Yes, he does.’

‘Sit with me.’

‘I shouldn’t really,’ she said shyly. ‘I’m technically working.’

‘At a party?’ he said incredulously. ‘Absolutely not. You enjoy yourself. I’m not sure I caught your name though, my dear.’

‘Doe.’

‘Doe. A sweet name for a sweet face. Named for deer or rabbit?’

She blinked in surprise. ‘Rabbit, actually. Most people just assume deer…’

‘I take pride in paying attention,’ he said. ‘You must have a libation for telling your tale. Please.’ He gestured to the glass of cognac. ‘Try it. I insist.’

She didn’t know how he knew she never had, and didn’t want to question it. ‘I… sorry. I’ll just get another glass, I have some vodka in my-‘

‘Nonsense,’ he said. ‘Go on.’ He pushed the glass toward her. ‘You don’t look contagious.’ He smiled, almost daring her to do it.

‘Okay.’ She perched gingerly on the edge of the chair opposite him and picked up the glass, turning the amber liquid this way and that. Taking a small sip, she coughed as it burned down her throat.

‘Small steps,’ said the stranger. ‘Give it a moment to develop.’

After the burn was a blooming of flavour- oak and sweet spice, vanilla and caramel. ‘Oh, it’s really nice. I like that.’

He watched her set down the glass, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. ‘Auspicious. Now, tell me your opinion of that new translation of The Odyssey, would you? I fear I might die of boredom if that slimy little employer of yours approaches me again.’

Her eyes widened. ‘I hope he doesn’t hear you saying that.’

‘I hope he does,’ he snarled. ‘He ought to be brought low, that one. You can tell me how you ended up in his service another time. Please, go on.’

‘Oh, well,’ she said. ‘I think the new translation is good, definitely more accessible for the layperson, but I do think it misses some of the magic of the original. Sometimes the value in these texts, I find, is in untangling them. And if there’s nothing to untangle, it feels a little bit soulless. There’s value in it for sure, but I didn’t fall in love with Classics as a discipline because it was easy.’

‘Well said.’ He smiled, sipped from the glass. ‘Would you like some more?’ He placed it in front of her.

‘I shouldn’t.’

‘That,’ he said slyly, ‘isn’t what I asked.’

She blushed, embarrassed. ‘Well. Yes, I would. As a matter of fact.’

‘Then drink.’

She drank. ‘I don’t miss my uni days,’ she continued, unprompted. ‘They were pretty awful, broadly speaking. A lot of my lecturers seemed to really be stuck in the dark ages-‘

‘Such is the life of an academic,’ he sighed dramatically. ‘I can’t say I miss my university days, either. Though they’re doubtless much further away than yours.’

‘I’m 30,’ she said. ‘And frankly it was this job or rot in obscurity at home.’

‘30 whole years? You jest, surely?’ His eyes widened and he leaned forward. ‘Why, you look positively cherubic.’

She frowned slightly, unsure how to take the theatricality in stride. ‘Well,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m glad to be here, no matter what age. Better to live than the alternative, no?’

‘Certainly.’ He smiled, a flash of perfect white teeth. ‘Though not under the thumb.’

‘I’m not.’

He regarded her silently for a moment. His gaze seemed to burn, her stomach swooping. Even when she looked away, his eyes did not waver. ‘Hmmm. Indeed. Listen, you go home. Have a nice evening. I’ll deal with him. But…’ he looked suddenly more intense, reaching into his suit pocket. ‘Take my card. I’d hate for this to be our first and last meeting, Doe. You’re wasted in a place like this. Now go, slip away before he notices.’

‘This is a really bad idea.’

‘The very best kind,’ he said with a quirk of the brow. His eyes gleamed conspiratorially.

She took the card. ‘Thank you. Who should I ask for when I call?’

‘I am Raphael,’ he said, taking her small hand in his to shake firmly. ‘It's been a pleasure. I hope we see one another again soon.’

‘See you,’ she said, rising to her feet. With a quick glance around, she scurried off to the exit, slipping into the night.

‘Get home safe,’ he said, voice carrying to her on the wind as she closed the door.

Huddling into her jumper, she began the short walk home. Her hands fumbled the keys, it was so cold; letting herself into her flat finally, she sighed in relief, locked the door, and stripped out of her uncomfortable clothes. ‘Fucking hell,’ she said, peeling back her tights to reveal bloody blisters. ‘I need to quit my job.’

She showered, ate a chocolate bar, and ignored the dishes in the sink that had been there for the last week in favour of texting the number on the glossy black business card in her pocket.

Hey, she wrote. I’m home safe. Thank you for looking out for me today. I appreciate it. -Doe

Not five minutes later came the response:

You said you were going to call. -R

Her stomach flipped. It’s a little late.

Many words or sleep, yes. I understand. Sweet dreams, little Doe. -R

The very counterfeit of death. It’s nice that you understand. Goodnight.

Tags:

@bluerosetarot @dansnotavampire @further-than-forever

@forget-me-maybe @poetryvampire @sasha199 @wandawillow

@boufsy @owlseeyoulaterpal @lanafofana @amorgansgal

@aryancunin @miradelletarot @marlowethebard

@crimson-and-lavender @reeseykins @medra-gonbites

@roguishcat @weaverofnetheril @galedekarioswifey @hyperfixationstation128 @12thhouse-sun

@astarryvamp @feedthepheasants @dabigstinky @dreamingofthewild @ladyofcrowsandcoffee

@femmefuck @spooky-lil-bee @m00kieblaylock

[jootloop]

the humble greasy brown paper bag activates my fatfur programming on a brisk monday afternoon, onlookers stunned

[holylulusworld]

Beloved corn dog

Summary: Dean finds something delicious.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x GN!Reader

Warnings: language, fun, crack, Dean loves food

A/N: Inspired by this post: Corn dog

“Damn, look at you sweetheart. You are the prettiest thing I ever laid eyes on,” Dean purrs inside the motel room. “What I would give to have you every day.”

You snicker as the hunter keeps on seducing whoever he has brought to his room tonight.

You’re usually not the nosy kind of person but hearing Dean made you curious. While you press your ear to the door, the hunter continues.

“What if I do it slow, huh? Would you like that, pretty thing?”

You grin. Dean is a master at seducing people. Men and women fall for him wherever he goes. He doesn’t even need to put much effort into getting someone’s attention.

“Let me lick you all over.”

Pressing one hand over your mouth you try to suppress a giggle. You can’t believe Dean just said that.

“Hmm…you like that, don’t cha?” He purrs, and then you hear him groan deeply. “Fuck, you taste so good. Can I have more?”

Your eyes grow wide at the noises Dean makes. He slurps, groans, and smacks his lips together. “Fuck, I can’t do it slow. I have to have you right now.”

“Oh my god,” you curse yourself for not stopping your tongue before it’s too late.

Dean opens the door, a gun aimed at your head while the other holds something you cannot identify.

“Y/N?” Dean wonders why you stand in front of his room, looking like he caught you with your hand in the cookie jar. “Something wrong?”

“Uh-sorry,” you clear your throat. “I wanted to ask if you want to share the food I bought.” You lift the big brown paper bag filled with greasy food. “I didn’t want to disturb you and…uh…whoever is with you.”

He furrows his brows. “There is no one here but me, Y/N,” Dean says. He opens his door wider to let you have a look inside.

“But you were talking to someone. I heard you…I mean…” you stammer nervously. “You said you want to lick them all over and stuff. Don’t lie to me!”

“I’m not lying,” he grins. “I was talking to this.” He lifts his hand, waving it in front of your face to show you what he’s holding. “See, that’s my newest discovery. I’m a food enthusiast and want to try all the food I can find on my travels.”

“What the fuck is that?” You wrap your hand around his wrist to get a better look at the food in his hand. “Are these French fries on a stick?”

“No, no,” he excitedly says. “That’s a French fry crusted corndog.”

“A what?” You blink a few times. “That doesn’t look very healthy Dean.”

“You have to try it, Y/N,” he pushes the monstrosity in your hand. “I got three more. Two for me, and one for Sammy.”

“Uh…”

“Try it,” Dean nods to encourage you. “It’s a corn dog, with cheese and French fries. I had to buy it.”

“French fries on a corn dog,” you wrinkle your nose. “Where did you get it?”

“There was this small stall at the farmer's market. A cute girl was selling it. She said it’s Korean street food, and that people love it.” Dean licks his lips. “Go ahead, take a bite. It won’t bite.” He chuckles at his rhyme. “I’ll have one of the others.”

“Okay. If I die because of this thing, I’ll haunt you, Winchester,” you point the corn dog at Dean. “Now, let’s see…”

Dean watches you nibble at the fries at first. You hum, moan, and then you start to feast on the corn dog. “That’s so good,” you chew loudly, almost choking on the food. “So…so good.”

“I told you so,” Dean takes a large bite of his corn dog. “Do you want to join my food club?”

“If I get to eat food like this, I’m all in,” you give Dean a wink. “Let me just finish this one off. We can try to find the perfect dessert after I’m done…”

Tags in reblog.

[ap41cu5]

The Rookie Detective: Joseph Oda x Fem! Reader (Chapter 4)

short synposis: joseph goes and visits sebastian, only to find out both his alcoholism and living conditions were worse than he thought. after helping him tidy up a bit and sustaining a cut on his face, the reader takes care of his wounds and lets him stay the night after he caught a cold <3

a/n: omg this only took me like a week to upload idk why this took me so long to write 😭 and these chapters just keep getting longer so i cut it a bit short at the end </3

word count: 4331

“Hey! Open up, I know you’re in there.”

Silence.

“Ugh,” Joseph grumbled, pounding on the door another few times.

“I’m not leaving until you open the door! I don’t care how long you decide to ignore me for!”

More silence.

The lush potted plants that used to decorate the patio had turned brown and moldy. A thick layer of dust coated his door handle, indicating that Sebastian hadn’t had visitors in a long while. 

“Don’t make me break down this door, Sebastian!” Joseph exclaimed, knocking another frustrated 3-4 times.

With an exasperated sigh, Joseph leaned onto one of the pillars just outside of Sebastian’s door.

He waited for about 30 seconds before he decided to begin knocking again until he heard the sweet sound of the latch unlocking. Finally emerging from behind the door, Sebastian’s hair was greasy and run amok, his now raggedy white tee-shirt was stained with what appeared to be remnants of alcohol, and his eyes were bloodshot.

“What do you want, Joseph? Just leave me be,” Sebastian’s voice was low and husky.

“You know I can’t do that,” Joseph said, letting himself in as he lightly pushed Sebastian aside to get through.

Taking off his shoes, Joseph’s nose immediately crinkled up at the sheer stench of the inside of his home. It reeked of alcohol and dust mixed with body odor. The entirety of his living room was riddled with stains, empty beer cans, and leftover bottles of wine. There was dust all over the fireplace and on the coffee table. As he entered the living room, taking in the gross and utterly pitiful sight, his attention was redirected by a noise from beside him.

“Do you like your gift, Lily?”

Joseph turned to the source of the sound. There was a video playing on the TV, it appeared to have been recorded on an old VHS. Myra was sitting next to Lily in front of a Christmas tree as she helped Lily to open her gift. A large, white teddy bear emerged from the red and white wrapping paper, it wore a Christmas hat and held a big red heart.

“I love it! Thanks so much papa!” Lily squeezed the bear in a hug before running behind the camera and into Sebastian’s arms.

The sight pained Joseph. How long has Sebastian been watching that for? Reminiscing over old memories of the family who had been brutally stolen from him?

“When’s the last time you’ve cleaned up around here? Or even taken a shower?” Joseph asked.

Joseph quickly went to find Sebastian’s pantry closet, where he grabbed a black trash bag and began to clean up all the leftover beer cans and bottles of wine. 

How does he live like this? Joseph thought to himself, his trash bag already halfway full despite there being even more bottles, cans, and even used tissues to clean up.

Sebastian didn’t say a word, but decided the least he could do was help him clean up the mess. Grabbing a trash bag and standing beside Joseph, he too began to clean up all of the trash left scattered around the living room.

Neither of them said a word as they both collected all of the leftover remnants. 

As Joseph picked up the last beer can, a cockroach scurried out from underneath, making him wince.

“Eugh, when’s the last time you’ve vacuumed?” Joseph asked as he watched the cockroach crawl behind the couch.

Sebastian didn’t answer, only grabbing the two full trash bags and taking them to the trash bin in his front yard. As Joseph went to return to the pantry for a vacuum cleaner, he noticed an empty bottle of alcohol left on his kitchen table.

“Looks like I missed one,” Joseph muttered to himself as he went to grab the bottle.

Grabbing the bottle by its neck, it slipped out of his grasp before he was able to catch it. The bottle smashed against the floor with a jarring ‘kersploosh!’ 

Shit.

Gathering up all the shards with his hands, he dumped all of the shards into a small trash bag to be thrown out later.

Joseph sighed, rubbing off any dust that got on his face. Returning to the pantry closet in search of a vacuum, he noticed a drop of red drip onto the floor. 

Was that.. blood?

A second drop of blood dripped onto his sock.

“Ouch!” Joseph lightly winced as he felt around his face for an open cut. 

There was what felt to be a slight cut just underneath his eye, and he had just added a second one as he continued to feel around his face. Looking down at his glove, there were small bits of glass shards likely from the broken bottle he dropped. It stung, but it was getting late and Joseph wanted to return home as quickly as he could for work in the morning. So he settled for quickly removing his gloves for the time being and dabbing the bleed site with a paper towel before he quickly returned to tending to Sebastian’s ungodly living situation.

Plugging the vacuum in, he proceeded to vacuum the entire area of carpet within his living room. The sound of the vacuum running over the carpet elicited a series of cracking noises as it removed all the dust and grime. As Sebastian re-emerged from his garage, he assisted Joseph by moving his furniture out of the way for Joseph to vacuum.

Minutes turned into hours as Joseph cleaned up around Sebastian’s home for him. While his home wasn’t exactly spotless, it was certainly in better condition than before.

“You should really consider getting help, Sebastian. Maybe getting a therapist,” Joseph suggested, taking his glasses off and inspecting all of the dust that covered its lenses. 

Sebastian, again, didn’t answer. Only breaking eye contact.

“I appreciate your help, Joseph.” “Hey, I’m serious! This isn’t healthy. How long have you been rewatching that video of Myra and Lily? You can’t drink all your problems away, Sebastian!” Joseph frustratedly huffed.

“What I do outside of work is none of your goddamn business.”

“I know you’re upset right now, so I’ll give you time to think over my offer. But, I do hope that you will begin therapy by your own prerogative,” Joseph replied as he put his glasses back on and began to make his way to the door.

Unsurprisingly, Joseph was only met by silence.

Shutting the front door behind him, Joseph pinched the bridge of his nose as he stood at the front of the patio.

“Please don’t make this harder than this already is, Sebastian,” Joseph muttered to himself under his breath.

Taking one final glance at the patio before he set on his way, he noticed one of the potted plants had been knocked over, likely due to the wind. He never knew Myra enjoyed gardening, but the abundance of plants around the house spoke for themselves. He carefully picked up the pot and set it upright, the leaves crunching as they rattled within the confines of the pot.

Joseph sighed. The scene was nothing short of depressive. 

“Not even the plants can survive without you, Myra,” said Joseph as he carefully scooped back up the loose soil that fell out of the pot.

“Wherever you are,” he paused for a moment, “Sebastian misses you. Both you and Lily.”

He got up, quickly dusting himself off as he finally made his way to his car. The deep blue color of the sky flooded the streets in darkness. With the only hint of illumination cascading down onto the busy streets from the moon, Joseph nearly tripped over his own two feet.

Just about to approach the last step down from Sebastian’s porch, his phone loudly rang from the inside of his pocket. The jarring sound made him jump as he quickly fumbled through his pockets to answer the rather unexpected phone call. Looking down at the caller ID, he held a certain level of uncertainty as to whether or not he remembered your phone number correctly, and if it really was you he was receiving a call from.

“Hello?” Joseph spoke into the phone, hoping to hear your voice on the other line.

“Joseph?” You replied, your voice a bit gravely after just waking up.

“(First Name)! I thought you’d be sleeping!” He replied, his heart rate immediately increasing upon hearing your voice.

“Your note was so considerate, Joseph. I– uh..” you gulped, “I wanted to check up on you.” Joseph immediately felt his face heat up.

“You.. you did?” He stammered, flattered that you were thinking of him.

“In the note you wrote that in case I was sleeping, you said you didn’t want to call in case you’d wake me up since I hadn’t gotten any sleep last night. So.. I wanted to check up on you. To see how everything went with Sebastian.”

You were just so sweet. You should have been sleeping right now, really. You were very clearly exhausted by how you were acting in the office earlier that day. He could even hear the exhaustion in your voice, but here you were, sacrificing precious time just to check up on him. His stomach was doing somersaults and he could feel his face heat up all the way up to his ears.

“It– it went.. alright I suppose. Sebastian’s not doing so great. He’s been watching this video on repeat for– God knows how long– of Lily and Myra opening Christmas presents. His house was a mess. All kinds of empty bottles of alcohol, and so much dust and grime everywhere. He’s falling apart,” Joseph felt his chest tighten, “I wanted to help him clean up as much as I could before I had to go back home, so I helped him clean up a bit and vacuum. And of course, I accidentally knocked over a bottle and cut myself on my face of all places.”

“That’s very kind of you, Joseph. Simply based on what I’ve heard, I would highly advise him to begin seeing a therapist. And, who’s Myra and Lily?” You asked.

Joseph sighed, he accidentally said too much.. again.

“I’m sorry, (First Name). I would tell you, but I still hold a lot of respect for Sebastian. He’s been a very good friend of mine for years, I would never want to ruin that,” he explained, feeling a bit bad for continuing to leave you confused.

“That’s alright, Joseph. I understand completely. And– and you said that you accidentally cut yourself, right? You didn’t happen to cut yourself with glass, did you?” You inquired, unsure of whether to be concerned or not.

“Uh.. yeah,” Joseph replied, a tinge of embarrassment present in his tone.

“Shit, did you tend to it properly!? Come back to my apartment,” you told him.

Joseph elicited a noise which consisted of a mix of grunt of confusion and slight panic. “Glass cuts can leave microshards which could be dangerous if they enter your bloodstream! I’ll clean it up for you, just come over to my apartment! I’ll remove them for you.” You quickly interjected,

“(First Name), are you sure that’s necessary? The cuts are really shallow–” “Just do it!” Your voice was laced with a sort of motherly aggression with how insistent you were on tending to his wounds.

He seemed to contemplate for a moment whether he should truly decline the offer or not. Despite how much he would enjoy the extra time with you, it was getting quite late. But apparently, the word “no” had recently escaped from his vocabulary. 

“Alright, I’m on my way,” Joseph replied, nearly facepalming upon hearing how quickly he said accepted your offer.

You almost fell out of your seat, you weren’t expecting him to say yes so quickly. But you were glad to spend more time with him.

“Sounds great! I–I mean, well, I’m glad I can tend to your wound since glass cuts can be tricky,” you stammered, you likely sounded a bit too excited for him to be coming over again.

A smile pricked at the corners of Joseph’s mouth.

“I’ll see you soon, (First Name).” 

Shortly after hanging up the phone, Joseph inwardly sighed before taking a moment to gaze up at the night sky.

“You really are going to be the death of me, (First Name),” Joseph muttered to himself before quickly entering the front seat of his car.

You were practically bouncing off the walls, but you kept reminding yourself that the only reason he was coming over was so that you could help him tend to his cuts. Quickly rinsing your face with cold water to bring down the persistent blush that never seemed to falter at the idea of him, you quickly rushed to grab your first aid kit from one of your drawers. Quickly setting it down onto your coffee table, you rushed to your bathroom for some cotton balls, tweezers and some hydrogen peroxide. You quickly fixed the pillows on your couch and dusted off your coffee table a bit, even spraying a bit of air freshener just in case. Right after the last spritz, as if on cue, you heard a knock at your door.

You practically threw the air freshener down as you scurried over to the door, not wanting to leave him waiting (and also being way too excited to see him), you quickly opened the door to greet him.

As the door swung open, the open cuts on Joseph’s face, just underneath his left eye, immediately caught your attention. While they didn’t look too deep, one of them stretched from the middle of his cheekbone all the way to just underneath the corner of his eye. The second one, while not as long, was significantly deeper and intersected the first cut, it looked about an inch long.

“Jesus, Joseph! How did you cut your face that badly?” You asked, a bit of blood threatening to spill from the second cut on his face.

Not even giving him a chance to answer, you grabbed his arm and pulled him inside, shutting the door behind him.

He let out a surprised grunt as his shoes squeaked against your floor as he tried to maintain his balance.

“I– sorry,” he meekly apologized as he quickly kicked off his shoes before walking onto your carpet.

“Here, have a seat,” you directed him to your couch where you quickly sat beside him to begin treating his wounds.

“Please remove your glasses,” you directed as you grabbed a cotton ball.

You poured a bit of hydrogen peroxide onto the cotton ball as you very gently dabbed it onto his face. He winced immediately, flinching a bit upon contact.

Gently resting your hand on the back of his head, you gently blew onto the open cut so it wouldn’t sting as much. 

“Just a few more seconds, Joseph. I just need to sterilize the site of the injury before I can properly treat it,” you explained as you continuously dabbed the cotton ball onto his cheek while blowing onto it.

He nodded in response, and you quickly finished up the disinfection process before you quickly grabbed your tweezers. Upon further inspection, there were tiny glass shards sitting inside of the smaller, deeper cut.

“There’s a couple of glass shards in one of the cuts. I’ll try to be as gentle as I can, I promise,” you cooed, gently pushing his head towards you so you could take a better look.

He bit the inside of his cheek at the blush that flooded his cheeks.

“Try to stay as still as you can for me,” you gently requested, unconsciously biting your lip as you tried your best to stay focused.

He gulped, his eyes darting between your hand, your eyes, and your lips. He could’ve sworn he could hear his heart racing with how close you were, that focused look in your eyes, and the way you bit down on your lip. On the bright side, it served as a good distraction. He almost couldn’t feel the tweezers reaching into the cut on his face and removing the wedged pieces of glass.

“There you go. Just like that,” you muttered as you carefully pulled out the last tiny glass shard.

As you finally took your hand off of the base of his neck and turned to put down the tweezers, Joseph let out a breath he hadn’t even known he was holding in to begin with. He felt his hands slowly unclench the base of his thighs and his shoulders loosen.

Quickly grabbing some neosporin, you squeezed a small amount onto your finger and turned back to Joseph.

“We’re almost done,” you smiled, motioning for him to turn his head slightly towards you again.

“Try to be more careful next time, please. Had this cut been even just a tad bit longer, you would’ve cut yourself in the eye,” your thumb lightly grazing over the end of the slit, just underneath his eye.

“You’re lucky none of these cuts were too deep, either. The last thing you’d want is stitches. But these look shallow enough to be able to heal on their own. Hopefully they don’t leave any scars..” you were so close he could feel your breath against his neck.

He felt himself tense at the close proximity. The scent of your hair conditioner flooded his senses and he could feel every single word in his vocabulary get stolen from him. His words had escaped him, and he was unable to say a single word. His face was beet red, his blush even more apparent given his pale complexion. 

Confused that he hadn’t responded, you took a moment to step back and scan his face, wondering if you had said something wrong. Immediately, the blush on his face caught your attention. Had you overstepped his boundaries? You quickly retracted your hand and immediately felt a pit in your chest open up. Had you made him uncomfortable? “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to overstep if I got a bit too touchy. I guess I just– I don't know– I don’t know what happened. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable–” you stammered, unconsciously beginning to twirl your hair in discomfort.

“No, no it’s alright! I– I guess must have spaced out, it was nothing you did (First Name). You didn’t overstep at all, and you were very gentle. I promise,” Joseph reassured you as he placed a hand on your shoulder, the blush on his cheeks gradually beginning to subside.

Now it was your turn to become flustered, apparently. Your cheeks lit up at the contact as you finally looked up at him. Your eyes catching a glimpse of his hands without his gloves for the first time. His fingers were long and slender, with a few veins stretching from his knuckles all the way down to his forearms. They were even prettier than you had imagined.

“Thank you for taking care of me, (First Name). We’ve only just met and you’re already lending me your kindness. And for that I thank you,” he added, his eyes darting between your eyes and your lips.

You were just so beautiful. Inside and out, and that fact had him in a chokehold. Part of him wanted to kiss you, badly. And the other part of him internally scolded himself for having such thoughts about you, an amazing woman that he had only just met.

You couldn’t find the words to speak at first, you were too flustered to even think straight. At first, all you could do was give him a small nod.

“Y-yeah, any– anytime, Joseph. It’s– it’s no problem, really!” You stumbled over your words, beet red at this point.

You could feel his hand slowly move upwards, his hand just barely touching the base of your neck. As you looked up at him, your lips unconsciously parting, his eyes seemed to dart between your eyes and your mouth.  

The tension was killing you. You had only just met him and yet here you were, falling, hard.

You quickly stood up, “How about I make you some tea!” You said as you made your way over to the kitchen.

“Ah– sure,” he replied, stifling a chuckle at your reaction.

“I have all sorts of teas here, I have Green, Earl Gray, chai, English Breakfast, which would you prefer?” You asked, taking extra care to hide your blushing face as you rummaged through your pantry.

“Earl Gray would be perfect!” He replied, leaning back on your couch, the soft pillows cradling his back perfectly. 

The scent of your air freshener was strangely relaxing. His eyes seemed to shut on their own as he let his head rest on the back of your couch. The light whirr from your fan and the sound of you preparing his tea was oddly comforting. He was exhausted from all of the events of today. He took extra care to drive you home after work, he had to help Sebastian clean up his living area, and he was going to have to drive home now after you finished preparing his tea. 

What time is it right now? Should I shower tonight or in the morning? I’ll probably shower in the morning since I’ll be too tired once I get home. It sure smells nice in (First Name)’s apartment. Joseph thought to himself, but all of his scattered thoughts slowly grew quieter. He was so tired he hadn’t even realized he was slowly drifting off to sleep.

After a few minutes of warming up the water and letting the tea bag steep, you stirred some honey into his tea. After you threw out the tea bag, you were finally ready to serve it to Joseph. 

Carefully placing the mug onto your coffee table, “It’s a bit hot, so be careful,” you said, only to be met by Joseph’s sleeping form. His ankles were crossed and his arms were folded over his stomach. His head was slightly tilted to the side. You quietly admired his features as he laid there. He had very nice, sharp features. Prominent cheekbones with a sharp jawline and a noticeably good side profile. He looked so tranquil. How could you ever want to wake someone who looked so soothed and peaceful while they slept?

You were taken aback when he elicited a sudden twitch in his sleep. You quickly looked away in case he woke up, not wanting to be caught staring. Slowly looking back at him, you now had another problem on your hands. A moral dilemma, if you will.

Should you wake him up and get him to go home and rest? Or should you just let him sleep here? What is the right thing to do in this situation? Part of you wanted to just let him sleep there, but what if he got upset once he awoke for not waking him up? You sighed, deciding that the best thing to do would be to wake him up. 

You gently placed a hand on his shoulder, “Joseph!” You whisper-yelled, hoping that somehow, that would be enough to wake him.

Unsurprisingly, he was still asleep. 

You lightly shook him, “Joseph?” You called out again, and were slightly disappointed when he began to stir and wake up from his slumber.

His eyes slowly opened, taking in his surroundings like he had forgotten where he was for a moment. He lightly rubbed his eyes as he slowly began to sit back up.

“O-oh, (First Name). I hadn’t realized I fell asleep,” he yawned, searching for his glasses.

You quickly took his glasses from your table and handed them to him,  your hands just barely touching for a moment.

“Thanks,” he quickly muttered as he put his glasses on.

He seemed to take a moment to let his eyes adjust to the brightness of your living room as his blinking had become slightly more rapid and he was still slightly squinting. 

“Achoo!” He sneezed, covering his mouth with his elbow.

He sniffled, rubbing one of his eyes.

“Bless you,” you said, immediately grabbing him a tissue.

He cleared his throat.

“I.. I don’t feel very well. I think I may have caught something after my visit to Sebastian’s place,” Joseph grumbled, his voice sounding nasally with congestion.

“Have some tea! It'll make you feel better!” You quickly advised, handing him the mug.

He gently took the mug from you and had a sip. His eyebrows raised slightly in pleasant surprise.

“You make very good tea,” he commented, taking another sip before breaking out into a violent coughing fit.

“Oh Joseph, you might be coming down with something,” you speculated, pressing the back of your fingertips onto his forehead. 

“You’re burning up, Joseph!” You said in a conciliatory tone, “Why don’t you stay here for the night? You need to rest.”

“No– I couldn’t possibly ask that of you,” Joseph politely declined as he tried to stand, before breaking into another violent coughing fit.

“You’re not asking, I’m offering. You took the time to drive me home, walk me all the way here, and even tuck me in. Please, I insist,” you placed a hand on his shoulder as you looked him in the eyes.

You were just so painfully hard to say no to. 

“Ah.. alright. Thank you, (First Name).” You couldn’t fight the big smile that spread across your face.

“Would you like to take a shower? You’re welcome to use mine. And I’ll get you some clothes to change into as well!” You added as you got up to find your dresser.

“That would be great. Thank you again,” he sniffled as he went to grab another tissue.

The moment you left the room and shut the door behind you, you couldn’t help but jump up and down like a little kid. Right as you finally settled down, you gathered some of your most oversized clothes to provide for him.

Who knew taking care of the guy you liked would be so fun?